Family by Necessity
by ArithmancerProof
Summary: AU from the end of OotP. Dumbledore decides that Harry must go into hiding to ensure his safety, and Hermione insists on accompanying him. Dumbledore's plan? Harry and Hermione are to be magically adopted by Snape, becoming his children legally, magically, and physically. My version of the Snape-adopts-Harry story.
1. Prologue: the board is set

A/N: This story begins at the end of OotP. Many major plot elements from the original series remain (Draco's task, the Vow, horcruxes, etc.), but the story itself diverges rather sharply.

I own nothing, and I make no money from this story.

 **Prologue**

Despite his best efforts, Severus Snape's arms and legs shook as he lowered himself into the armchair across from the headmaster.

"Severus?" the older man questioned, frowning. So marked was his concern that he failed to proffer the usual lemon drop.

"He was… displeased with everyone, as we knew he would be. The loss of the prophecy upset him greatly."

"But the cruciatus?"

"He was using it rather indiscriminately. For my part, he thought I should have kept the other children from accompanying Potter." The potions master quirked his lips. On a softer man the expression might have been a wry smile, but on the harsh lines of his face the expression was one of derision.

"You took a potion?"

"On the staircase."

The headmaster frowned. "You ought to let Poppy have a look at you when we're through here."

Severus responded as he always did to queries about his health: by changing the subject. "He's targeting the boy, now more than ever. I know you had hoped that he would turn his attentions to the Ministry, now that he's been forced into the open, or even that he would turn to you. But we underestimated his obsession with the dratted child."

The twinkle in the headmaster's eyes, already subdued, went out entirely. "You're sure?"

"Quite. He's prioritizing it even over releasing the Death Eaters captured in the Ministry debacle from Azkaban." Severus paused, closing his eyes briefly. "Worse, it seems that Lucius had been gathering information, whether through the Ministry or through Draco. The Dark Lord knows that the boy's home is in Little Whinging. They're likely to try for him in London, and then any time he leaves the house."

"Harry must be hidden, then. He is not yet ready to face Tom, and he is too vulnerable where he is."

"You think Potter will submit to staying in hiding any more than that mongrel ever did?" Severus sneered.

The headmaster smiled. "Ah, but I don't intend to keep Harry hidden the way we did Sirius—about whom you might be slightly more polite, especially now that he is dead. Oh no, I know quite as well as you that would never work."

"What do you intend, then?"

Albus opened a drawer in his desk and withdrew a letter. Running his fingers over the broken seal, he raised his head and returned his gaze to Severus. "I've had a letter from Maureen O'Malley. She's dying—her core is inflamed, and they didn't catch it in time. Couldn't have, since she hadn't been to see a healer for almost a decade."

"Maureen? Dying? But she's no older than I…"

"She's outlived two of her closest friends for more than a decade—three of them, in all the ways that count. The war took its toll on Maureen, as it has on all of us."

"She's been visiting Alice in St. Mungo's for years. In all that time, none of the healers saw that her core was inflamed?" Severus dropped to a whisper, sorrow for once coloring the anger in his voice.

Albus sighed. "She says it was the healer on Alice's ward who finally noticed. Healers don't generally examine visitors unless they're visiting vulnerable patients, you know—a matter of privacy, I believe."

"You're telling me this now to ensure that my evening is as roundly unpleasant as possible?" Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, attempting to ward off the headache that he could feel closing in.

"Of course not, my boy," Albus remonstrated. "You know I take no delight in your discomfort. No, Maureen wrote to ask if there was anything she could do to aid in the fight against Tom. She says she will feel better facing Marlene and Lily again if she does something to help the cause that they died for."

"And the guilt-induced good intentions of a dying woman help us how, exactly? A woman who, I need not remind you, ran off to seclusion in Ireland to avoid the war and its aftermath?"

"Because she is offering exactly what we need to hide Harry, of course! She has lived so secluded for so long, and outside of England—it presents quite the opportunity we need to give Harry a new identity."

"How, Albus? How do you propose to give the most recognized boy in Britain a new identity?"

The twinkle was most decidedly returning to the headmaster's eyes, much to Severus' dismay. At this last question, the old wizard beamed. "A blood adoption in the old form, of course. Harry will receive a new set of features belonging to his adopted parents, and he will be able to change back and forth into his original form when needed, if at a considerable magical and physical cost."

"Blood adoptions in the old form require two parents, Albus." The old man was twinkling again, damn him.

"Of course. But you and Maureen spent a great deal of time comforting each other after Lily's death, didn't you?"

"Things never went _that_ far, Albus!" Pink blossomed on Severus' pale cheeks, betraying his mortification. "And besides, I hate the brat! He despises me in return! You cannot possibly want me to be a father to him!"

"Does anyone know that things never went that far? It seems to me that most of your Death Eater colleagues were rather busy in those first months after Lily's death, and you've never been one to share personal details with your colleagues here at Hogwarts."

"Of course no one knows! My private life is and has always been private! But I never wanted any son, Albus, much less James Potter's brat!"

"Can you think of any other option that will keep Harry safe? Any other option with a better than even chance of keeping him alive? You yourself admitted that he cannot be kept hidden from the world, not ten minutes ago."

Severus grimaced in response.

"It is necessary for Harry's safety, Severus. I have asked many things of you, I know. This one, at least, I can hope will be less distasteful than you fear. Harry loves easily and forgives easily, and the two of you have more in common than you think."

"So you've said for the past five years, and yet I remain unconvinced. I suppose I must accede in order to keep the brat safe, but do _not_ pretend that playing guardian to Potter can possibly bring me anything but a great deal of frustration and inconvenience," Severus huffed.

"As you wish. I am of course very grateful that you are willing to take him in—"

"Grateful? Pah. You know I have no real choice, not when the boy's safety is at stake."

# # #

Two days later at precisely three minutes past 4 PM, 15-year-old Harry Potter rode the moving staircase up to the headmaster's office. Less than a week had passed since he had half-destroyed Dumbledore's office, and he was nervous about facing the room and its occupant again. But the headmaster had sent for him, so here he was.

Dumbledore greeted him with a smile, as if their last meeting had never happened at all. "Harry, my boy! Do come in and sit down. Lemon drop?"

"Um, thanks." Harry blushed and took the lemon drop, more because it gave him something to do than out of any real desire for it. He sat gingerly in the squashy armchair facing the desk, studiously examining the grain of wood on the desk's front rather than meeting the headmaster's gaze.

Albus Dumbledore took the opportunity to study the boy in front of him. Harry looked tired, overwhelmed by grief. The headmaster found himself wishing once again that he could ask less of this boy, spare him further pain and discomfort: but he had already erred in that direction with Harry, and he could not afford to do so again. And so he cleared his throat and began to speak.

"I'm afraid that I have rather discomfiting news, Harry."

At this the boy suddenly looked up, green eyes wide with anxiety. "Has someone else been killed?"

"Oh no, nothing like that. No, the Death Eaters have been too busy regrouping to go on the offensive this past week, though we cannot expect that to last long now that the Ministry has acknowledged Riddle's return." Here Dumbledore paused, searching for the right way to begin. "I'm afraid that Riddle's reaction to last week's debacle at the Ministry has been to focus his attention even more obsessively on you."

"Does that make any difference? It's not like he hasn't been after me all along."

"I'm afraid it does. Since his return last year he had prioritized acquiring the prophecy, and when he targeted you before that he never had more than one or two followers to assist him. He was also avoiding Ministry attention, before. Now, forced into the open and with the prophecy out of his reach, he is likely to act more decisively."

"I thought the Aurors captured most of the Death Eaters at the Ministry. That has to hold him back, doesn't it?"

"Perhaps a little, but less than you might think. Only a fraction of Riddle's followers were present at the Ministry, and I do not think we can expect Azkaban to remain secure for long."

"Oh." Harry grimaced in dismay.

"I had hoped that Riddle would turn his focus in other directions, Harry. But alas, I have reason to believe that he is now more focused on you than ever. As things are, you are not safe."

"Have I ever been safe, sir? I still don't see that it makes much difference."

Dumbledore winced, keenly aware that he had been unable to keep Harry as safe as he would have liked, that he had at some moments encouraged Harry to face danger, despite his care for the child. Dearly as he might love Harry, his first priority was the defeat of Riddle. It had to be. _For neither can live while the other survives_.

"Perhaps never as safe as one might have wished. But you have never faced danger so intensely for such a duration. I'm afraid that our best option is for you to go into hiding, Harry, as you are not yet ready to face him."

"Hiding!" Harry yelped, dismay writ large on his face and in his voice. "Please, I don't think I could bear to be shut away, like Sirius was. I— I just couldn't. _Especially_ not at Grimauld Place."

"Rest assured, I have no attention of shutting you away. It was a mistake with Sirius, and it would be a greater mistake with you."

"Then how will I be hidden?"

"That is something I cannot tell you yet, Harry. I have made arrangements on your behalf, but it is essential that no one know the details, especially not your friends."

"I won't be able to talk to them?" Real desperation showed on Harry's face.

The headmaster noticed, and it pained him. "I think we may be able to arrange for the occasional exchange of letters, carefully filtered. But nothing more—the risk is simply too great. I'm sorry."

Both wizards paused for a few moments, reflecting. Eventually Harry discovered that he had a question, and after another moment managed to voice it. "When— when do I go?"

"Tomorrow when the other students depart on the train. Pack your trunk as if you were taking it—the House Elves will take it for you. You may walk down to the platform with the other students, but do not board the train. You may tell those who ask that I'm insisting you travel separately, as a matter of safety. You may tell Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger that you are going into hiding, and Miss Weasley and Mr. Longbottom as well if you desire. It will become apparent soon enough."

"Wait. Does that mean I'm not going back to the Dursleys?" Harry smiled, if tentatively, for the first time in the conversation.

"It does." The headmaster smiled in return, pleased that one small aspect of his plan appealed to the child. "The rest will have to wait until the other students have departed. While you may not be thrilled with the arrangements I have made, I think you will not find them so terrible as you may fear."

Unsure of how to respond, Harry remained silent, lost in thoughts.

"Do you have any questions, my boy? Or should I say, questions that I might be at liberty to answer?"

"Er—How often will I be able to write to my friends?"

"Perhaps every couple of months? Though it will depend upon circumstances." Seeing Harry's crestfallen face, Dumbledore added, "I'm sorry, Harry. But any more than that is too likely to attract attention, and your safety _must_ be the top priority."

Harry felt a lump forming in his throat. Only writing to his friends every couple of months! That would be worse than summer at the Dursleys. Wanting to leave before he started either crying or destroying the office again, he responded, "I think that's all."

"Very well then, Harry. Until tomorrow."

# # #

Unable to face dinner in the Great Hall, Harry wandered down to the kitchens to get food, encountering Luna on the way. His anger at the cruelty of her housemates momentarily overrode his overwhelming self-pity, at least for a few minutes, and she really did make him feel a bit better about Sirius dying. A tiny bit.

But even treacle tart in the kitchens could not erase the despondency that surrounded him. Harry was beyond relieved not to be going back to the Dursleys, but that relief was overwhelmed by his despair at the prospect of being cut off from all of his friends. They were the best part of his life, and the only thing that seemed worse than being cut off from them was being tortured by Voldemort—which was the point, he supposed. But he still hated it.

So it was a despondent Harry who returned to the Gryffindor common room halfway through dinner, and when Ron and Hermione returned from dinner in the Great Hall they found him even gloomier than he had been earlier that afternoon.

When the three friends had made themselves comfortable in an out-of-the-way corner of the Common Room, Harry haltingly related his meeting with the headmaster. "At least he says I won't be shut away in a moldering old house somewhere. Maybe it'll be better than the Dursleys." Harry tried to smile, more for his friends than for himself, though no one was reassured by it. "Just—I'll miss you. And Hogwarts, and the DA, and everyone."

"Oh, Harry." Hermione reached over and pulled him into a hug. Uncharacteristically, she didn't say anything else.

Ron more than made up for Hermione's silence. "Well I reckon if Dumbledore says it's not safe for you, he's probably right. But Merlin's pants, he's mental to make you leave Hogwarts and keep you away from everyone. " Ron continued ranting, mostly about the injustice of it all, with a little bit of why couldn't Harry come stay at the Burrow mixed in. Neither of the others answered him, both knowing that nothing about Harry's life had ever been fair. Hermione watched Harry to be sure that he understood that staying at the Burrow was wishful thinking—surely it would be one of the first places that Death Eaters would look—but seeing in his face that Harry understood Ron's offer for the mix of love and wishful thinking that it was, Hermione bit her lip and said nothing.

The three friends sat together all evening, playing the occasional game of Exploding Snap but saying little—for what was there to say in the face of such news?—each in their own way relishing the last chance the three of them would have to sit together for a very long time.

Entering the Common Room a few minutes before curfew with dirt from the greenhouses caking the knees of his pants and clinging under his fingernails, Neville Longbottom saw the three friends and made to go over to say hello. But there was something in the intensity of their faces that told him the moment was private, and he turned and took the stairs up to the boys' dormitory instead. But something of the looks in their eyes and mouths stuck in Neville's mind: sadness on all three faces, Harry's eyes heavy with resignation, the quirk of Ron's lips broadcasting confusion, and Hermione's eyes alight with a strange determination. It was a scene he would remember for a long time.

# # #

When the three friends parted to go up to their dormitories just before midnight, with promises to meet the others for breakfast, Hermione pulled both boys into a quick hug before disappearing up the girls' staircase.

But she did not enter her dormitory. Instead she stopped near the door, looking to make sure no one was in sight, and whispered a Disillusionment charm, tapping her wand on the top of her own head. Looking down, she saw that her legs and feet exactly matched the carpet and walls of the dimly lit hallway. After whispering a silencing charm in the direction of her feet, she turned and retraced her steps to the Common Room.

After satisfying herself that the boys had gone up to their dormitory and that the few students still in the Common Room were engrossed in each other and not attending to the exit, Hermione snuck across the Common Room and out of the portrait hole. As she walked away from the Fat Lady she allowed herself a small sigh of relief—but only a small one, for she couldn't shake the feeling that she must remain undetected now if she was to have any hope of success.

Fifteen minutes later, after successfully evading Filch (luckily Mrs. Norris had been in another part of the castle), Hermione found herself in front of the gargoyle guarding the headmaster's office. Silently thanking Harry for his carelessness with the password earlier in the day, she whispered, "Fever fudge." The gargoyle sprang aside and she stepped onto the moving staircase, breathing another small sigh of relief.

She saw light streaming from beneath the headmaster's door as she approached and felt a further rush of relief: so far, so good. After cancelling the disillusionment charm Hermione hesitated only for a moment before knocking, and her hand did not shake.

The headmaster looked only slightly surprised to see her. He offered her a lemon drop and gestured for her to take a seat, both of which she accepted. "Good evening, Miss Granger. What brings you here tonight?"

Hermione clasped her hands together in her lap to stop herself from fidgeting. "Harry told me and Ron about your meeting with, Sir. About his going into hiding."

"Indeed, I would be quite surprised if he hadn't." He peered at her over his half-moon glasses, waiting for her to continue. The absence of the Weasley boy suggested that she wasn't here in an attempt to dissuade him, and the headmaster found himself genuinely curious.

"I want to go with him."

"Pardon?"

"I want to go into hiding with Harry, Sir. If you say it's necessary for his safety then I believe you. But the last thing he needs is to be separated from his friends. He's grieving for Sirius—he's still grieving for Cedric, in a way—and he's never done well when he's isolated. You didn't see much of him last summer, Sir, but I did. It was terrible. And then he was only isolated for a few months. He needs his friends. Maybe he can't have all of us with him in hiding, but that doesn't mean he shouldn't have anyone. So I'm volunteering. He can have me." As she finished she raised her chin, looking the headmaster squarely in the face.

He considered her for some moments, looking intently into the girl's face as if really seeing her for the first time, possibilities and plans whirling rapidly, revising themselves within his mind. Finally he questioned: "Do you have any idea what this would mean for you, Miss Granger?"

"I suspect you can tell me, Sir."

The headmaster's eyes twinkled in appreciation of the rejoinder, though his face was grave. "We would have to fake your death, in the Muggle world as well as magical. No one could know the truth—not your parents, not your other relatives, not the Weasleys, not your other friends, not your professors here. Far more completely than Harry, you would have to cut off all contact with your former life. Your education would be interrupted, though you would be able to complete it in time. But you would be giving up your entire life—nothing less. Are you willing to do that?"

Hermione hesitated briefly, searching for the right words rather than uncertain of her answer. "Harry was one of my first real friends. I know what it's like to be lonely and isolated, because it was all I knew before Harry and Ron. Harry saved me from that. Now it's my turn to save him. Ron has other people in a way that Harry and I never have—he doesn't need me in the same way. Harry does—need me, I mean. He needs to not be alone. I owe him so much, and I can give him that. Besides, it might make a difference: help keep him alive, help win this war. And giving up my life as I know it is worth that chance, isn't it? It's not like I'll have any place in this world if the Death Eaters win, and at least this way I'd be doing something to help stop them."

The headmaster nodded slowly, and though he did not smile something eased in the creases around his eyes. He cleared his throat and responded, "Very well. I apologize for asking such a delicate question, but I need to know: do you harbor any romantic feelings for Mr. Potter?"

"For Harry?" Hermione laughed in response. Despite the gravity of the circumstances, the idea was just too absurd. "Never. Harry's like the brother I never had. He thinks of me like a sister, too."

"Thank you for answering, Miss Granger." He paused again, contemplating the girl in front of him. It was an extraordinary offer she made—so much so that the possibility had not entered his head.

Severus would not be happy, at least not to begin with—he loathed the Granger girl only slightly less than he loathed Harry. But would it be worth it? For Harry, for the war, for the girl herself? Two of those questions were simple, answered as soon as contemplated. As Miss Granger had noted, Harry did far better in the company of his friends than without them. Miss Granger in particular seemed to be a steadying influence on him, and her brains could only be an asset.

As for the girl herself, all of this was feasible only because she was muggleborn. Magical parents—and records of their children, just as importantly—were extremely risky to manipulate. But for a muggleborn, both family and official records would be far easier to hoodwink. And as the girl herself had suggested, it was conceivable that life in the magical world could become very difficult for a muggleborn, if Voldemort ever attained the upper hand. So there were large potential advantages to the girl herself, large enough to justify cutting her off from her family and interrupting her life.

But her effect on the war effort? On the stability of the family that would need to be built? That was harder to say. Dumbledore was inclined to think that she might be a moderating influence between Severus and Harry (at least once Severus acceded to her presence), and strategically he liked the thought that her intellect could be made so directly available to two of the key pieces on the board. Impossible to say with any certainty, of course, but he rather liked the odds.

While the headmaster considered, Hermione Granger sat still in the chair before his desk, hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her anxiety was evident in how tightly she clasped her fingers and in the way she bit her lower lip, but she did not fidget, nor did she press him (as, it must be admitted, she would have done even a year before). While the headmaster's mind rushed through possibilities and details, likelihoods and logistics, her mind focused on a single point: _he hasn't said no yet_. _He hasn't said no yet_.

Finally, Dumbledore spoke. "I cannot make any promises now because there are arrangements to be made involving others than myself, so you must not say anything to Mr. Potter. But your arguments have merit. I will see if the arrangements can be made."

"Thank you, Sir," she responded quietly. Her eyes blazed, not with joy but with triumph and determination.

"Do not thank me, child. The road you ask to walk will not be easy." His eyes twinkled as she opened her mouth. "Of course you did not think it would be easy when you asked, I know. But your gratitude is unnecessary, all the same. Now, can you arrange to have yourself ready and everything that you would like to keep with you packed in your trunk by Tuesday morning?"

"Yes, I think so. My parents will be at work—they've planned our holiday abroad for later in July."

"Excellent. It will not take long to discover whether my plans can be rearranged to accommodate you. If we are able to include you, you will leave your current life behind on Tuesday. Understand that you will not be able to keep your current possessions with you—the risk is simply too great—but they can be stored in safety for your future use."

He paused, watching to see how the girl took such immediacy. She swallowed, but responded calmly: "Very well."

The headmaster smiled. "One other detail. I will have to construct a simulcrum to take your place, so it would be helpful if you were to make two copies of everything you write by hand between now and then. The copies will be consumed in making the simulcrum, and will help to give it depth and a more believable semblance of life. They need not be neat, but they must be in your hand."

Hermione nodded. "Yes Sir, I've read all about them. Simulcrua absorb knowledge, opinions, and feelings from writing in the subject's hand, and are able to converse about subjects and people mentioned in the writing used to make them. Is there anything particular that I should be sure to write?"

"Letters to your friends and a start on your summer assignments should be adequate. But be careful not to write anything that so much hints at Harry's going into hiding or the possibility of your accompanying him, whether for the simulcrum or otherwise. The risk is simply too great. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir. Of course."

"Very well. Thank you for coming to see me this evening, Miss Granger. Given the lateness hour, I think you would do well to floo back to your Common Room. You will be able to reverse the spell if I disillusion you before traveling through the fire, yes?"

"Yes, I disillusioned myself for my walk here this evening."

"Very prudent, Miss Granger." The headmaster smiled broadly, the lines in his face slightly less pronounced than they had been for several days. "I look forward to seeing you on Tuesday."

# # #

So it was decided: Harry Potter and Hermione Granger would be adopted—by blood, in the old style—by Maureen O'Malley and Severus Snape, becoming their children legally, magically, and physically. An audacious ruse, to be sure, but so preposterous that it had a reasonably high chance of success.

Severus complained about Miss Granger's inclusion in the plan, of course. He didn't like the Granger girl, he'd never made any promises about keeping _her_ safe, et cetera. But when pressed by Dumbledore, he grudgingly admitted that Granger and Potter together were likely to be _slightly_ less irritating than Potter by himself, on the grounds that (1) they could entertain each other, and (2) Granger (unlike Potter) could be reasoned with. He wasn't happy, but he was so accustomed to Albus prevailing in their disagreements that he made only token complaints.


	2. 1: Goodbyes

A/N: Since I don't want people reading under false pretenses, I think I should be clear now that this is not going to be an H/Hr story. Sorry, it's just not a ship that's ever made sense to me. So if you absolutely need that relationship, this story is not going to be for you. That said, none of the principle characters in this story are going to pair up for quite some time and romance is never going to be the focus of the story, so if you enjoy gen fic then please come along for the ride.

Reviews are always welcome!

Obligatory disclaimer: Not mine. I do not reap any pecuniary benefits from writing this story.

 **Chapter 1: Goodbyes**

Harry was in a rather strange state of mind when he accompanied his friends first to breakfast and then down to the train on the following morning. On the one hand, he was elated not to be returning to the Dursleys and thus avoiding one of the most unpleasant cornerstones of his life. But on the other, he was devastated to be parting from his friends. Elation warred with devastation, while a sense of unreality threatened to overwhelm both: it didn't seem quite real that he wouldn't be returning to the Dursleys, and it seemed equally unreal that he wouldn't be sharing a compartment with Ron, Hermione, and a giant bag of chocolate frogs on the Hogwarts Express come September 1.

Neville, Dean, and Seamus sat with Harry, Ron, and Hermione at breakfast, but Luna was lost in her own world at the Ravenclaw table, and Ginny sat with her friends from her own year—comfortable in the expectation that she would be seeing Harry and Hermione over the summer. Harry tried to savor every moment, but felt himself oddly disconnected from the chatter of the table, as if some part of him was already gone.

Ron and Hermione were somber too, neither of them speaking much, while Dean and Seamus expounded loudly on their summer plans. Hermione looked tired, as if she hadn't slept much, and seemed at moments to be on the verge of tears. Ron too looked unhappy, tongue-tied after the long flow of words the night before. But they sat on either side of Harry, and he was comforted by the familiar feeling of their bodies on either side of his. Neville sat across from Hermione, also silent. He was usually quiet at meals, and everyone knew that Harry wasn't fond of summer away from Hogwarts, so the group's silence went unremarked.

After breakfast Harry took a carriage down to the train station with Ron, Hermione, and Neville, though unlike the others he left his packed luggage in Gryffindor tower. During the ride Harry told Neville that he would be going into hiding, keeping his eyes fixed on the thestral pulling their carriage because it was easier than looking into Neville's face.

When they arrived on the platform, Neville surprised Harry by pulling him into a tight hug, after which he volunteered to go find a compartment to share with the others, kindly giving the three friends their privacy.

Time seemed to slow as they stood on the platform, looking into each other's faces for a moment that seemed both long and infinitely short.

It was Hermione who pulled away, squeezing the boys' hands extra hard before murmuring "I'll be right back" and darting away.

Harry was left with Ron, staring at his first friend and wondering how he could live without him. "I'll write as often as they let me," he promised, voice cracking.

"I'll try to write you novels like Hermione does," the redhead replied, his attempted humor falling flat.

Thirty meters down the platform from where Ron and Harry stood, Hermione came up behind Ginny and grabbed her wrist. "Ginny! Harry's not coming on the train. Come say goodbye."

"What?" Ginny turned and stared at her, startled.

"Harry's not coming on the train with the rest of us," Hermione repeated. "I wanted you to have a chance to say goodbye." Turning, she gestured back the way she had come. "This way." Ginny grabbed her hand and followed, weaving between piles of luggage and clumps of students on the crowded platform until they reached Ron and Harry.

"Ginny!" Harry exclaimed, shooting Hermione a look of intense gratitude. He had wanted to say this goodbye, but hadn't quite known when or how to seek her out.

The youngest Weasley stopped an arm's length short of Harry and Ron, Hermione next to her. "Harry! Hermione said you're not taking the train?"

"Dumbledore said it wasn't a good idea."

"Oh. Will we see you this summer, at least?"

"No. Er, Dumbledore wants me to go into hiding, thinks I'm too much of a target as it is. I'm, um, not sure when I'll see you again." Harry grimaced, wondering if he could have broken the news any more awkwardly.

"Oh." Ginny's eyes flicked over to Hermione and the two shared a look of mutual exasperation before turning back to Ron and Harry. "I—"

The silence stretched, both knowing that they wanted to say something but neither sure of what they wanted to say. Finally, Harry spoke.

"Dumbledore said I won't be able to exchange letters very often, but I'll write."

Ginny smiled. "That'd be nice." She darted forward and gave Harry a quick hug. "Take care of yourself, will you?"

Harry pulled a face. "That's the whole point of this, isn't it? You take care too."

Turning to Hermione, Ginny promised that she'd come visit them on the train. Waving at Harry, she turned to go back to her year mates.

"Ginny!" Harry called out belatedly, "I'll miss you."

She paused and looked back, a small smile on her face. "I'll miss you, too." And then Ginny was gone, darting around a clump of second year Ravenclaws and disappearing behind a group of sixth year Hufflepuffs.

It was at this point that Luna wandered up. She greeted them dreamily: "Oh, hello Harry, Ronald, Hermione. Are you not going on the train, Harry? You don't seem to have any luggage."

"No, I'm not." Harry sighed, feeling like every time he explained the situation it became more real. "Dumbledore reckons I'd better play least-in-sight for a while."

"Yes, that might be wise. The wrackspurts are so thick around you that you're rather like a beacon at the moment."

Ron's jaw dropped at this statement and he goggled at the peculiar Ravenclaw. Hermione made a gurgling noise that might have been strangled laughter, though it was hard to say. But Harry felt some of the tightness in his chest ease, and he smiled broadly back. "Have a good summer, Luna."

Hermione added, "Neville is saving a compartment, if you want to sit with us." Ron sent her a dirty look at this invitation, but luckily Luna didn't notice.

"Oh, what a lovely offer. It will almost be like having friends!" Luna beamed at them and wandered onto the train, presumably to find Neville and their compartment, dragging her trunk behind her. The three friends found themselves alone for one final time.

The three of them stood in a circle with their arms around each other, throats tight. Long minutes passed as the chaos of the platform swirled around them and finally thinned. They said little, for what is there to say in such a moment? Instead they stared into each other's faces, memorizing details they already knew by heart. Ron was unusually pale, making his freckles stand out more strongly than ever. Hermione had dark circles under her eyes and her cheeks were wet with the tears that had been threatening all morning. Harry committed the details to memory, promising himself that he would always remember exactly how they had looked at this moment. Memories, he reflected with some bitterness, were too often the only thing he got to keep.

Finally they were the only students left on the platform. A whistle blew, and the stationmaster shouted out a warning that the train would be leaving in one minute.

As she had so often before, Hermione broke the silence, whispering, "I love you both so much."

Harry responded, voice cracking with the pent-up emotion of the last day. "You two are the best friends I could have asked for. Even when I can't see you, I'll think of you every day."

"I'll miss you, Harry," added Ron, his own voice rough with emotion, and the three tightened their embrace.

"Mr. Weasley! Miss Granger! On the train _now_!" interjected Professor McGonagall. She was standing at the nearest entrance to the train, obviously waiting to check the last two students off the list.

Giving Harry one last hug, the other two turned towards the train. Hermione grabbed Crookshanks' wicker basket, and together the prefects levitated their trunks and guided them onto the train (Ron's bumping rather hard against the side of the train along the way). They scrambled onto the train just before it began to move, Professor McGonagall firmly shutting the door after them.

Harry watched the train pull away, the lump in his throat expanding so that it seemed to encompass his whole chest. He did not cry, because life with the Dursleys had taught him not to. At best, his childhood tears had been met with contempt, more often with cruel taunting and threats—often acted upon—that whichever Dursley was present would give him something to cry about. So Harry did not cry, and was not even conscious of any urge to do so. But he felt as if he had put his heart on the train with his friends, and he fancied that he felt the train carrying it further and further away as it disappeared into the distance.

When the train had faded into a blob on the horizon, Professor McGonagall turned to Harry and cleared her throat. "Come along, Mr. Potter. The headmaster is expecting you back at the castle."

Numbly, Harry allowed himself to be led, though he was grateful that his head of house did not seem to expect him to talk, as he rather suspected that the power of speech was beyond him.

When they arrived at the castle, Professor McGonagall led Harry to a portrait on the third floor, one corridor away from nearby classrooms. The portrait was old and depicted a dark-haired witch dressed in a simple gown of deep orange, with autumn leaves woven into her long hair and a grove of trees in late autumn depicted behind her.

Professor McGonagall introduced the woman in the portrait. "This is Horatia, Mr. Potter. Horatia, this is Harry Potter." She turned to Harry. "The headmaster asked me to tell you that you will be staying in this guest suite for a few days, while you remain here. We can't have you rattling around in Gryffindor tower on your own, and besides the house elves are itching to start scrubbing it from top to bottom now that the students are gone. The password is _Quidditch and chocolate frogs_."

At this, the portrait swung forward, and Professor McGonagall gestured for Harry to precede her through it. He found himself in a comfortable-looking sitting room. The décor—mostly various shades of brown, beige, and cream with silver accents—was decidedly more restrained than that of Gryffindor tower, but the sofa and armchairs looked quite as inviting. His trunk and Hedwig's cage sat against the back of the sofa, while Hedwig herself sat on a perch near the far wall, next to an open window.

At the sight of his owl, something in Harry's chest eased, and a corner of his mouth turned up. But before he could walk over to greet his owl, Professor McGonagall was talking again. "You have your choice between the bedrooms, so I'll leave you to choose a room and get settled. The headmaster suggested that you oughtn't unpack too fully, as you won't be here long, though he didn't give details. Lunch will be in the Great Hall at noon, and the headmaster would like to see you in his office after. Do you have any questions?"

Harry found his voice enough to say, "no, ma'am." His head of house bid him good day and left, leaving him alone.

Curiosity momentarily overruled despondency as Harry went to investigate the bedrooms. The bedroom on the right was decorated in gold, cream, and pale blue, with oak furniture. Its bath was done to match in cream-colored marble, with gold fittings and pale blue towels and rugs. Harry chose the bedroom on the left, which was done in darker blue, grey, and silver, with furniture that appeared to be ebony. His bath was grey marble with silver fittings and dark blue towels and rugs, and with the exception of the prefects' bath (which he'd used clandestinely during his fourth year) it was the most luxurious bathroom he'd ever seen.

Dragging his trunk into his chosen bedroom (where he was pleased to see that it fit underneath a convenient bench padded in grey velvet that stood at the foot of the bed), Harry unpacked enough for a few days, then set to organizing and neatening the contents of his trunk, more because it was in front of him and something to do than because he was really bothered by the mess within.

#

Much to his disappointment, Harry didn't learn much from his after-lunch meeting with Dumbledore. The headmaster gave him an armful of books— _Magical Plants of Ireland_ , _Ireland's Most Magical Creatures_ , _A History of Wizarding Ireland_ , _A Wizard's Guide to Magical Cork_ , and _Principles of Magical Warding_ —and explained that since it would take a few more days for everything to be ready, Harry might as well use the time to start reading, as he would need to know the contents.

It was evident to Harry from the array of books he'd been given that Ireland was somehow involved—perhaps he'd be living there?—but Dumbledore gave no other details, so he returned to the guest suite on the third floor feeling as though he had learned nothing.

The next few days passed quietly for Harry. He did spend several hours each day reading, though probably not as many as Dumbledore had intended. The book on magical creatures was the most interesting of the lot in Harry's opinion, and the book on warding was also pretty good, but after five years of Binns he couldn't summon any enthusiasm for wizarding history, and herbology was not among the subjects he cared to read about on summer holiday.

To Harry's slight surprise, most of the teachers were gone within twenty-four hours. Half had disappeared by dinner on the first night. Professor McGonagall stopped in to say goodbye to him after breakfast on the morning after the train departed, gifting him with a tin of ginger newts and a watery smile.

By the third morning after term ended, the castle was almost deserted. Dumbledore was still there, of course, as was Hagrid, and the house elves. Snape appeared sporadically for meals in the Great Hall, leaving Harry uncertain about whether Snape was staying in the castle or just visiting a lot.

Harry spent a great many hours lying in bed, or occasionally lying on the couch in the sitting room of his guest suite. He read when he remembered to, but more often stared into space and tried to let his mind go blank. On a few occasions he visited Hagrid for tea, but it was clear that the gamekeeper had a lot of work to do now that the students were gone, so the visits were shorter and further apart than Harry would have otherwise chosen.

Without anything of consequence to do (in Harry's opinion, reading did not count) and without anyone to distract him, Harry was completely overwhelmed by his grief for Sirius. He did not cry, as he had forgotten how to do so. Instead he was engulfed by listlessness, and sat for hours staring into space, thinking about everything he had done wrong in the events leading up to Sirius's death. He was angry, far angrier than he'd been last summer when he felt shut out by the order. Harry was angry with Dumbledore for not telling him the prophecy sooner, angry with Snape for allowing it to happen, angry with Sirius for dying when Harry needed him.

But most of all, Harry was furious at himself. Why hadn't he realized sooner that it was a trap? Why hadn't he fought better (never mind that the Death Eaters were fully-trained adult wizards and he was not)? Why hadn't he worked harder at occlumency? He asked himself the same questions over and over, never reaching resolution or conclusions but stewing in his own anger and self-loathing.

Still, by the time Harry woke up on Monday his anger had largely burned itself out. He was still angry and he still loathed himself, but the energy was gone now, and with it the immediacy of his fury. The questions and recriminations that had circulated through his mind over the past few days were not gone, but they were firmly lodged in the back of his mind. To start with, Harry's anger was replaced by numbness, and he went through the day mechanically.

He spent most of the afternoon with _Magical Plants of Ireland_ open on his lap (mostly out of guilt that he hadn't started it before now), but read only a few pages and remembered even fewer. As the day wore on and faded into evening, Harry found himself wondering more and more often how much longer he would stay here in this limbo, and whether being more or less alone at Hogwarts like he was now would turn out to be better or worse than whatever was going to happen to him.

For the first time since the Hogwarts Express had departed, Harry did not fall asleep thinking about Sirius's death. He was too consumed by wondering when Dumbledore would tell him how he was going to be hidden to focus on his grief or his feelings of guilt.

# # #

When Hermione accompanied Harry and Ron to breakfast after a short and restless night's sleep on the morning after her conversation with Dumbledore, it took most of her self-control not to spend the entirety of the meal gazing around the Great Hall. It was her second favorite room at Hogwarts (the library was her favorite, of course), and she felt a sharp pang at the realization that she didn't know when she would next get to see it.

The enormity of last night's decision was beginning to hit her, and while she was certain of her choice she also felt a profound sense of loss.

Like Harry, Hermione felt more at home at Hogwarts than anywhere else in the world. While her childhood had been far more loving than Harry's, it had still been a lonely one. She was an only child, and had been bullied mercilessly by her classmates at school for her precociousness, her blunt and often ill-considered honesty, and lack of talent for sport.

After her nearly disastrous run-in with the troll in her first year, she had found an acceptance at Hogwarts unlike what she had found anywhere else. She was not popular, but she had Harry and Ron, and looser friendships with Neville, Ginny, Luna, Susan Bones, and a smattering of other students from Dumbledore's Army. It was, in many ways, a richer life than her eager 11-year-old self had ever dared to hope for when she first boarded the Hogwarts Express.

Of course, in a way that was why she was going: she owed so much of the happiness in her life to her friendship with Harry. If his friendship had given her so much, it was only right that she leave it all behind on his account. But that did not make the leave-taking easy.

Over the years, many parts of Hogwarts had become mundane. The moving staircases had ceased to be amusing by October of her first year, and she now considered them a profound nuisance. With time she had become accustomed to stone passageways, suits of armor, courtyards and crenellations. They had become so ordinary that she often failed to notice them.

But there were a handful of places in the castle that still seemed as magical as they had when she first saw them: the library, which she only appreciated more with every book she read from the collection; the Gryffindor Common Room, with its cozy armchairs and welcoming fire; Professor McGonagall's classroom, though she never would have admitted it to Harry or Ron; the Prefect's bath, which she'd only gotten to use this past year, and was unspeakably luxurious besides; and of course the Great Hall, with its enchanted ceiling and floating candles. Hogwarts, for Hermione, was those places. And she was dearly attached to them, much as she was attached to the people she shared them with.

But much as she wished to, Hermione could not afford to look around the Great Hall, allowing her eyes to linger on the ceiling, the candles, the high table (now blessedly free of Umbridge). Dumbledore had not said anything explicit, but it was clear that she could not behave in any way out of the ordinary. So she could not make a last visit to the library, either, though she had allowed herself one last trip to the prefect's bath this morning.

#

Saying goodbye to Harry on the platform was hard, even knowing that she was likely to see him again in a few days. If she was not saying goodbye to Harry she was (secretly) saying goodbye to Ron, and if she wasn't saying goodbye to Ron then she was (truly) saying goodbye to Harry.

In either case, Hermione was keenly aware that she was saying goodbye to the three of them as a unit. Dumbledore hadn't said how long Harry (and thus Hermione) would be in hiding for, but she suspected that it would be at least six months, if not a year or longer. As the trio stood on the platform with their arms around each other, she wondered how long it would be before they stood that way again, and how much would have changed by then.

#

The train ride back to London was enjoyable, if bittersweet. For once Hermione did not spend the majority of the train ride with her nose buried in a book, telling herself sternly that there would be plenty of opportunities to read later.

Instead she talked and played games with her friends, giving Ron the opportunity to trounce her three times in a row at wizards' chess. She was glad to have Neville and Luna in their compartment, and many other members of the DA came by to say hello to the four of them. Ginny stayed the longest at almost half an hour, much to Hermione's delight. Since she couldn't risk making her goodbyes seem unusually momentous Hermione felt that she couldn't particularly seek anyone out, but was grateful for the chance to spend time with her first female friend at Hogwarts.

The more she enjoyed herself on the train, the greater Hermione's sense of loss grew. In the present moment, she was not only content but acutely aware of her own contentment—and just as aware of its transience.

Part of her willed that the train ride would last forever. But of course it couldn't, and before she knew it Hermione was giving quick hugs goodbye to Neville, Ron, Ginny, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley before following her parents off of the platform and out to their car. The goodbyes were too brief, as the Weasleys expected that she would come stay with them in August, but they were something, and Hermione told herself that they would have to be enough.

#

Hermione's parents had taken the afternoon of from their dental practice to pick her up from the train, but they were back to work the next morning, leaving her home alone all day to pack, plan, and reflect.

In her childhood Hermione had been close to her parents, and she still loved them to the moon and back. But after five years at Hogwarts, they were not close any longer, and Hermione found it exhausting to interact with them.

Brilliant as they were, her mum and dad did not understand magic. More to the point, they did not understand the magical world. Oh, they were pleased that their daughter earned top marks, and they had been thrilled last year when she had been named a prefect. But they had no idea what she learned at school, and had no idea what a magical career path might look like. (Much as she was going to miss them, Hermione couldn't help feeling relief that she would not have to explain to them that there was no such thing as university in the magical world.)

Most importantly, they did not understand about Voldemort or the Order. To be scrupulously fair, it is impossible to say for certain that they did not understand about Voldemort, because Hermione had never told them.

Hermione had not told her parents about Quirrell and the Philosopher's Stone after first year. She had not told them about the Basilisk second year (as Muggles, her parents had only received a vague notice from the school that she was ill and recovering in the hospital wing). She had certainly never told them about helping Sirius Black escape in her third year, and while she had explained about the Triwizard Tournament in her fourth year she had carefully avoided explaining its potential lethality, her sojourn at the bottom of the lake during the Second Task, or Harry's misadventures at the end of the tournament. She had absolutely neglected to mention Voldemort's return. And Hermione had absolutely no intention of telling her parents about the recent debacle at the Ministry of Magic this year.

Hermione had good reasons for this, and Hogwarts school policies made it extraordinarily easy for students to hide facts about the magical world from Muggle parents and guardians. Technically, a muggleborn student's guardianship in the magical world was split between his or her Head of House and the Headmaster of Hogwarts, from the time he or she was sorted until he or she came of age. Muggle parents could sign forms for Hogsmeade, of course, and had control over the elements of their child's education with clear parallels with the Muggle world. But for many matters, it simply wasn't practical to give guardianship decisions to parents who did not have the necessary context to make informed decisions for their children, and so it was by design relatively easy to keep Muggle parents in the dark.

Harry had never bothered to look up the details, and presumably most other muggleborn students told their parents quite a lot about their lives at Hogwarts, but Hermione had read everything she could on the subject at the end of her second year in preparation for her return home, and she was fully aware that her omissions were legally allowed—just as she knew her parents would be both furious and deeply wounded if they ever learned what she had kept from them.

As a long awaited only child, Hermione had grown up with the sort of overprotective parents who would not allow her to climb the trees in their back yard for fear that she would fall. Despite being an unusually responsible child, she had not been allowed to visit the park one street over from their house on her own until the summer before she started Hogwarts. Even when she was allowed to do things, even simple things like the children's cooking class she'd begged to take one summer, her parents clearly worried.

While she had found enjoyable childhood pastimes within the constraints of her parents' fears—reading was always acceptable (except when she did it under the covers after light's out), rounded out by French lessons, piano lessons, and carefully selected and closely supervised children's science experiments—she couldn't remember a time when she had been unaware of her parents' anxieties.

So Hermione had at put off telling them about her various adventures and close calls at Hogwarts, until the gap between reality and what they knew was so large that she could not contemplate telling them at all.

At root, she feared that if her parents knew how much danger she had been in while a student at Hogwarts, they would immediately attempt to remove her from the school. And they would try, she firmly believed. Of course, if it came to it, she would fight to stay—and probably win. If her parents were to attempt removing her from school there would be a Ministry hearing, and based on the legal precedents the Ministry would almost certainly decide in favor of Hermione and Hogwarts.

After much thought, Hermione had decided several years ago that it was infinitely preferable to lie by omission about her experiences at Hogwarts than to break her parents' hearts by refusing to leave school. Whatever her parents might think and however strong their impulses to keep her close and protected, Hermione understood that she was far safer living in the magical world and continuing her education, with fully trained witches and wizards to protect her, than she would be attending a muggle school and living with her parents.

So the distance between parents and child widened, a gap fostered by silences and secrets. She did not love her parents any less, but spending long stretches of time with them had become more and more strained over the years. She had become only too eager to stay at Hogwarts or with the Weasleys over breaks, avoiding the emotional discomfort of time with parents who did not really either know or understand her.

And yet, despite all the awkwardness, all the distance, all the omissions, Hermione knew she would miss her parents. They had been her rock for the first twelve years of her life, until she'd found her place at Hogwarts. And she understood—as well as almost any teenager understands, at least—that their anxiety and over-protectiveness came from a place of love, however incompatible it might be with her life.

Hermione spent her first morning home alone going through boxes of family photos. She was grateful for her parents' tendency to get multiple prints of many (though not all) pictures, and for the disorganization of the boxes. They meant that she could take a handful—not perhaps the best handful, but still a good handful, a precious handful—to keep without much risk of their absence being noticed. (She wished that she might use magic to make copies, cursing the restriction on under-age magic for the thousandth time, but did not give in to temptation. Too much was at stake.) So she picked carefully, sparingly.

 _A photograph of her parents from their wedding, radiating joy. Not one of the pictures they displayed in the sitting room, but still a nice one._

 _A photograph of her parents on the day they opened their own dental practice, perfect teeth showing in both smiles._

 _A photograph of her mother, heavily pregnant with her and smiling broadly at the camera._

 _A photograph of Hermione and her mum's parents, taken when she was four._

 _A photograph of the three of them on holiday in France, the summer before her third year._

No more. More might be noticed. Except… her fingers trembled as she realized that the last box—the first one she had removed from the shelf—included extra Christmas card photos from her childhood, a small pile of copies for each year. She took one of each, greedily, thrilled with her luck.

She gathered them up carefully, tucked them into an empty envelope and put them into her trunk. Less than two-dozen Muggle photos to serve as a connection to her Muggle life. So little, and yet so much more than she'd hoped for. Of course, she had a small album of photos from Hogwarts, photos of her with Harry and Ron, a few of her with Ginny, most of them taken by Colin Creevy. Her parents didn't know that album existed, so there was no reason to leave it behind.

Deciding that it was too soon to do any more packing, Hermione turned to her summer homework. Knowing that even she would not be able to do all of her assignments in a few days, she chose to start with her favorite, transfiguration.

#

By Monday evening, Hermione had written essays for transfiguration, charms, and arithmancy, as well as letters to both Harry and Ron, asking how the starts of their respective summers were going (and badgering Ron to start on his summer assignments). True to the headmaster's instructions, she wrote out two copies of each letter as well as the rough drafts of each essay.

She had only unpacked her pajamas and underclothes from her trunk, and she had very few things to add from her childhood room, for fear that their absence would be noticed (she had inherited her sharp memory from her mother, after all). She added a small stuffed cat; a couple of favorite books; an old diary which she had used from the time she received it for her 10th birthday until the spring of her first year at Hogwarts, when it had occurred to her that it might be wise to stop recording her life on paper, at least for now; a necklace that had belonged to her grandmother; and a small bottle of her mother's perfume, which she had taken years ago when her mother was out of town for a conference, and whose disappearance had gone unremarked. Nothing more. Bringing too much was simply not worth the risk.

She had tried to enjoy the past few days, cooking with her dad, helping her mum in the garden, watching movies together as a family in the evenings. But it was bittersweet. Knowing the grief she would be causing her parents made it difficult for Hermione to find genuine pleasure in the time she spent with them.

As always, the weight of her secrets weighed on her as she relayed a highly edited version of the past school year to her parents' eager years. She told them brightly about what she had learned in transfiguration, charms, and herbology. She told them that the most recent defense teacher had been awful and would not be returning, but failed to mention Umbridge's ties to the Ministry, her sinister methods of punishment, or Hermione's own role in Umbridge's resignation. Hermione told her parents all about her OWL exams, except for Professor McGonagall getting attacked during the astronomy practical and Harry's vision during History of Magic. She did not tell them about the DA, or Dumbledore's suspension, or her recent misadventures at the Ministry, leaving her parents with the impression that she had found the year stressful primarily because of the pressure of exams. Her parents consequently worried that she was not as capable as she ought to be at performing under pressure, a topic they discussed with each other in hushed voices and with creased brows.

When they expressed this concern to their daughter, Hermione wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. It was so absurd, and yet it demonstrated the disconnect between them with devastating clarity.

So while Hermione went to bed on Monday night with a feeling of apprehension for what was to happen the next day (she did not really doubt that Dumbledore had been able to make arrangements on her behalf), mingled with grief and guilt for the life she was about to leave behind, a significant part of her just wanted to be gone already. She felt guilty for her own impatience to leave, layered on top of the guilt she felt for the pain she would cause her parents, but she was honest enough—at least with herself—to admit that she was ready to go.


	3. 2: Preparations

A/N: Apologies for being so slow to update, and thank you for your patience. RL obligations have been eating lots of my time and energy, I'm afraid. Hopefully I will find more time to write over Thanksgiving. Reviews are always welcome, and thank you for reading!

 **Chapter 3: Preparations**

The first days after the end of term were far less leisurely for Severus Snape than they had been for Harry Potter or Hermione Granger.

What with marking five years' worth of exams and assigning course grades (thank Merlin the 5th and 7th years were exempt due to OWLs and NEWTs), the graduation ceremony for the 7th years, end-of-year administrative headaches, and seeing all the blasted little blighters onto the train, the end of the school year was always hectic and exhausting for the staff. All of the professors stayed a day or two past the miscreants' noisy departure on the Hogwarts Express in order to tie up loose ends (two for the Heads of House, having more to do), then fled the castle at the earliest possible opportunity—with far more enthusiasm at their departures than most of the students ever guessed.

As he stomped away from the castle towards Hogwarts' apparition point on Saturday evening, Severus found himself keenly aware that Filius was lying on a beach somewhere in the Caribbean (undoubtedly drinking fruity cocktails with ridiculous umbrellas and delighting in garish swim trunks and towels); Pomona was on a cruise around the Mediterranean (working her way through a pile of Muggle mystery novels and a large bottle of liqueur—Severus guessed limoncello, though she was also quite fond of grappa); and that even Minerva had escaped to her niece's family in the wild north of Scotland, and would be spending a quiet evening in front of a cozy fire and sipping an excellent single malt whiskey (rumor had it that Minerva reserved the best of her cellar for her home in the highlands, though Severus had developed a great appreciation for the Muggle Balvenie Scotch she kept stocked in her rooms). Every one of his fellow professors was celebrating the conclusion of the "Year of the Toad" in the time honored tradition of all teachers at end of term: with peace, quiet, and alcohol.

But Severus had not had time for even a single solitary whiskey in his own chambers, he reflected bitterly. Between dancing attendance on Albus to iron out details of his supposed fatherhood and its disclosure and brewing all the potions that Albus's plan required, Severus had barely been able to snatch a few odd hours of sleep here and there over the past few days, much less find half an hour to enjoy a book and a dram of whiskey. To add insult to injury, he was forced to see Potter at meals when he attended them (which he did more often than not, since it was easier than dealing with Albus when he didn't)—a horrible precursor to the endless Potter-plagued hours to come.

Albus's addition of the Granger chit into the plan only added to the list of finicky potions he had to brew: age suppression potion (which, contrary to popular understanding, did not actually make the drinker younger, just made him or her appear younger and fooled magical tests for determining age); a rare plasticity potion that Albus believed would make it possible to move Potter's scar to a less obvious location; strong painkillers and sleeping potions in order to dull the aftereffects of the children's transformation; and now the dratted simulacrum solution for Granger. All well within Severus' prodigious abilities, but it was taxing to brew so many complex brews simultaneously.

And now he had to go dance attendance on the Dark Lord, on top of everything else. Severus grimaced at the thought. Still, there was no use in delaying the inevitable. Approaching the apparation point, Severus pulled the mask out of his pocket, silently affixed it to his face with his wand, pulled up his hood, and apparated away.

# # #

When the doorbell of her parents' house rang at half past 9 on Tuesday morning, Hermione hastened to open it, welcoming Headmaster Dumbledore inside.

He looked as genial as ever, though it must be admitted that Hermione had never really seen him up close until her late-night visit to his office the previous week. But his blue eyes twinkled merrily as he verified that she was alone in the house and expected to remain so. When she made to lead him to the sitting room, however, he demurred.

"If you will pardon my forwardness, Miss Granger, I suggest that for the preparations that will be necessary for completing the simulacrum, your kitchen would be a far more convenable location."

"Of course, Sir. This way." Cheeks heating at the strangeness of the situation, Hermione led the headmaster into her parents' kitchen, where he made his way to the center island. From the folds of his cloak Dumbledore produced an impossibly large cauldron, followed by a large glass bottle—at least five liters! —filled with what looked like a potion, a small pumpkin (whole), a cutting from an ivy plant, a small knife, and stirring implements.

Lifting his wand and waving it in a complex pattern, the headmaster chanted a long, low string of words too quick for Hermione to follow. When this was done—it took nearly a minute—he turned to her and smiled. "An old yet useful warding spell, my dear. Neither the Ministry nor other interested parties will be able to track magic performed inside this house for the next day or so."

"Oh." After thinking for a moment, Hermione questioned, "is the ward itself traceable?"

"Only while it is active, with a faint residue for a short time afterwards." The headmaster beamed, pleased by the thought behind the question. "But it cannot be detected remotely, and it is highly unlikely that anyone would notice it who was not examining the wards quite closely. Nor would such a ward be entirely inexplicable if it were noticed here, at the residence of a sixteen-year-old witch known for being precocious. But in all likelihood it would go unnoticed amid the other wards, even if someone should look—you are aware that the Order has placed other wards on this house, yes? Nearly two years ago now, it would be." Seeing her surprise, he continued. "Naturally, we would not wish to leave you or your parents vulnerable. Of course the thing was done discreetly, so as not to alarm your family."

Hermione nodded, face blank, wondering just how many decisions and precautions had been undertaken on her behalf without her knowledge—and how many more she was implicitly accepting by following Harry into hiding. It was disquieting to realize how many vital questions she had failed to ask. Privately, she vowed to to better in future.

Seeing that Miss Granger had no further questions, Dumbledore turned his attention to the assortment of items he had placed on the counter island. After peering for a moment at the countertop (granite), he poured the potion into the cauldron and lit a gentle fire beneath it.

As accustomed as she was to the presence of magic after five years at Hogwarts, Hermione was struck by the incongruity of the headmaster standing in her parents' kitchen, in the very same spot where her father usually chopped fruits and vegetables and occasionally kneaded bread dough, wearing a flowing blue cloak and matching robes with silver stars and moons embroidered around the hems (a small corner of her brain acknowledged that these were among the more restrained of the headmaster's robes), merrily stirring a large cauldron that had not been visible a mere minute before.

After a few moments spent stirring and another moment to adjust the flames beneath the cauldron, Dumbledore looked up at her. "If you would be so kind as to retrieve the papers you have collected for the simulacrum, as well as a full change of clothing—something similar to what you're currently wearing, I think, and do be sure to bring underthings—for it to wear when we finish."

Murmuring her assent, Hermione turned and rushed up the stairs to her bedroom. Socks, underwear, and a spare bra were easy, of course, as was a spare pair of jeans, slightly lighter in color than the ones she was wearing. She initially made to grab a lime green t-shirt, but overcome with images of the headmaster deciding he needed robes to match, she prudently put it back in favor of a leopard print t-shirt that her mum had bought for her last summer. It was a bit louder than the plain grey t-shirt she was wearing (chosen because its disappearance from her wardrobe would go unremarked, unlike her dark indigo boot-cut jeans, which she had selfishly chosen to take because they were her her favorites), but certainly would not surprise her parents when they came home that evening. Placing the light blue cardigan she planned on wearing upon departure on top of her trunk so that she wouldn't forget it, she grabbed a black cardigan out of the closet to complete the simulacrum's outfit, grabbed the waiting pile of parchment off of her desk, and hurried back downstairs to Dumbledore.

Placing the pile of clothing on the kitchen table (very carefully ensuring that the bra and underwear were fully hidden by the t-shirt and cardigan stacked on top of them), Hermione brought her small pile parchment over to the Dumbledore.

"If you would take the rod from me and continue stirring—counterclockwise, at a pace of about two dozen stirs per minute—so that I can examine these…"

"Of course." Taking the stirring rod from the headmaster, Hermione began stirring, timing herself by the clock on the wall. The pumpkin and ivy had disappeared from the countertop, presumably into the potion, which now opaque and considerably thicker than the potion that had initially been poured into the cauldron—and the height of the liquid was steadily rising.

Several minutes later, she was startled to hear the headmaster's voice coming from immediately next to her. She had been so wrapped up in her stirring that she hadn't noticed him come up beside her and peer into the cauldron. "You may stop stirring, Miss Granger. We will let it simmer for a few moments now. That will do quite nicely."

She stepped back, setting the stirring rod on the counter beside the cauldron, absently noting that not a single drop of residue stuck to it. Turning, she faced him.

"These will do quite well," he said, gesturing to the parchment he still held. "I will do my best to see that the originals of the essays are delivered to your teachers at the appropriate moment. Professor McGonagall in particular, I believe, will very much want to read your effort for her class."

Hermione nodded, steadfastly ignoring the lump that formed in her throat at the thought of her Head of House and favorite professor believing her dead. _You agreed to this_ , she sternly reminded herself.

The headmaster continued, seemingly satisfied with her non-verbal response. "While these essays and letters will help imbue the simulacrum with something of your mind and heart, the potion must also be imbued with your body. I will need to take a lock of your hair, and you yourself will need to add your own blood. Both must be freely and willingly given. Do you understand and accept that, Miss Granger?"

Ever a Gryffindor, Hermione raised her chin and responded, "Yes, Sir. I understand, and I give of my hair and my blood freely and willingly, without threat or compulsion."

"Very well," he responded gravely. Taking the knife from the countertop, the headmaster sliced a single curl from her head and dropped it into the cauldron. Handing the knife to her, he instructed "Cut once across your palm, just deeply enough to draw blood, and let the blood flow freely into the cauldron. I will pull your hand back and heal it once we have enough."

Nodding, she did as he said, watching the drops of blood fall into the cauldron below with a detachment that surprised her. Blood magic was strong magic, Hermione knew, and coercive blood magic was almost categorically dark magic. Voluntary blood magic was usually light magic, and included some of the most powerful healing spells and protective rituals known to wizard-kind. As blood magic went, preparing a simulacrum was relatively minor, she reminded herself. But it was the first time she had ever used blood magic herself (attracting Thestrals in the Forbidden Forest most emphatically did not count), and it was both sobering and thrilling to watch the bright red drops fall from her own hand into the simmering cauldron.

Lost in her reverie, Hermione was unsure of how long she stood allowing blood to flow from her hand into the cauldron: it could have been mere seconds, or it could have been several minutes. Gently, Dumbledore pulled her wrist away from the cauldron, and with a wave of his wand her hand was healed. He directed her to sit in a nearby chair and rest as he added her pile of parchments, one by one, stirring clockwise several times after adding each page.

He then stirred the potion counterclockwise precisely four times, banished the flames from under the cauldron, and moved the entire cauldron onto the floor—somehow without spilling any of the contents, despite the obvious weight. Curiously, he also conjured a large folding screen, about 2 meters tall and 1.5 meters wide, and placed it so that it did not quite block his view of the cauldron. Pointing his wand at the potion, the headmaster began to chant.

Slowly at first, the mass of substance rose up from out of the cauldron (Hermione was not sure that it precisely qualified as a liquid any longer), spinning all the while. As the headmaster continued chanting, it formed a column roughly as tall as she was—or rather, she supposed, as tall as she would be if she were to stand in a large cauldron. A formless cylinder at first, it took on a more human shape as it spun, light and shadows chasing each other and finally separating into pale skin and darker hair, an obscuring mist emanating from the body.

When the headmaster finally stopped chanting and lowered his wand, he stepped to the side, so that his view of the figure in the cauldron was fully obscured by the screen. This was much to Hermione's relief as the figure stopped spinning and she found herself staring at her own naked body, down to the large mole on the underside of her left breast. Even so, she felt her cheeks heating in mortification at the situation, and intensely grateful for Dumbledore's attention to propriety.

As the simulacrum stepped out of the cauldron (still hidden from the headmaster's view), Dumbledore sent the pile of clothes on the kitchen table sailing over to it, and her double quickly dressed herself. Hermione sighed in relief and he queried her: "Is she fully dressed?"

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent." With another wave of his wand he banished the screen, and then stowed the cauldron and other potions implements back in his robes. (Hermione still couldn't see how such a large cauldron could possibly fit, and made a mental note to research charms for expanding space.) Turning back to the simulacrum, he again brandished his wand and began chanting.

This time the words were slower and less peculiar—closer to standard Latin than before—and Hermione was able to understand enough to realize that he was giving it instructions, parameters for behavior. Stay away from magical—places?—put off any invitation to visit the Weasleys until later in the summer, decline any other invitations to visit magical households. All believable enough, and obviously aimed at keeping the simulacrum away from situations in which it might be discovered.

The chanting changed again, getting either further from standard Latin or using unfamiliar voices and declensions, she wasn't quite sure. This part was more commanding somehow, making the air feel heavy, and Hermione's exposed arms prickled in response.

This time the headmaster made no explanation after he finished, and Hermione found herself questioning whether she wanted one. Wordlessly, simulacrum Hermione stood up and walked out of the kitchen. Real Hermione watched her go, unnerved to see herself doing something so normal from such a strange perspective.

Dumbledore turned to face his student, smiling genially. "Are you ready to leave, Miss Granger? Where are your things?"

Hermione swallowed before responding. "I'm as ready as I'll ever be, sir. My things are upstairs, in my room."

"Then let us proceed there, if you don't mind. Unless there's anything you need from downstairs?"

#

Upon reaching her room, Hermione slipped on the blue cardigan and faced the headmaster. "Everything I need is in my trunk, sir."

"Excellent." He smiled yet again, pleased by her readiness. "Now, it would not do to have your entire school trunk disappear. I propose to copy it, complete with its contents. If anyone attempts to use them intensively, they will all wear down rather quickly, but the simulacrum will not touch them, and it seems unlikely that the things will see real use."

Hermione nodded, thinking that it must take immensely strong magic and mental organization to copy the contents of her entire trunk, but she supposed that if anyone had such skills it would be Dumbledore.

He continued, "There are just two details. First, if there is anything in your trunk that you do not wish to have copied and left behind, you had best remove them before I do the spell."

Hermione nodded, opening her trunk and removing both the small envelope of Muggle photos and her old diary. The former her parents would find too peculiar, and the latter she did not want them to read.

"Second, I'm afraid that magical books are warded against such reproduction, as part of their manufacture. For the sake of verisimilitude, I think it best that you leave your texts from this past year in the copied trunk." Seeing the stricken look on her face (Hermione hated to be parted from any book, most especially her schoolbooks) he hastened to reassure her. "Don't worry, I have replacements for you right here," he said, patting the vicinity of his robes where the giant cauldron was stored.

Reassured and slightly chagrin at her own panic over losing books that were so easily replaceable, Hermione nodded.

Pointing his wand at her trunk, the headmaster incanted, " _Rem integrem gemino!_ " and a duplicate trunk appeared next to it, the only clear difference being that it was much less full without books.

Hermione knelt between the two trunks, restoring her photographs and aborted diary to the full one. She then began picking out her school books from the past year, starting with the _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5_ , and moving them into the duplicate trunk. After she moved each fifth-year text, Dumbledore handed her its replacement, allowing her to keep all of her books in their proper order.

But when it came to Slinkhard's _Defensive Magical Theory_ , the headmaster did not hand her a replacement, instead murmuring, "Oh dear, I'm rather afraid I forgot that one," his eyes twinkling expressively.

A gurgle of laughter caught her unawares, and Hermione grinned up at him. "Not to worry, Sir. I shan't miss it in the least."

When the process of moving and replacing books was finished, Hermione closed both trunks, dragging the first one out into the middle of the room and stowing the duplicate in the original's place. Turning to her closet, she found a battered pair of trainers, recently replaced by her parents, and put them on. The new ones would have been more comfortable, but these would do well enough.

She proceeded to the bed, where Crookshanks lay ensconced on her pillow. Stroking him gently, she whispered, "I wish I could take you with me, Crooks. I promise you'll be well taken care of, but I'll miss you all the same."

Straightening, she turned once more to the headmaster. "How are we leaving, Sir?" The words cost her something to ask, standing in the middle of her childhood sanctuary, uncertain of when or if she would see it again. But it was better to move forward and keep momentum. If she paused it would only become harder to leave.

Once again he smiled. "Given the need for secrecy, Fawkes has volunteered his services. Are you ready to go?"

She nodded, tears filling her eyes as she struggled to keep her lips from trembling. "Better to go quickly, I think."

"If you would take my left arm with one hand, and hold onto your trunk with the other—" he instructed. She did so, and he raised his right arm. Fawkes appeared in a flash of feathers and song, and a moment later they disappeared in a flash of white light. On the bed, a fluffy orange half-kneazle yowled his displeasure.

# # #

When Harry awoke on Tuesday morning, it was to the tell-tale pop of his breakfast being delivered on a tray—a first in his experience at Hogwarts. Not knowing that Snape had stumbled to his own bed an hour after dawn, having finally delivered the last of the necessary potions to Dumbledore, and that Dumbledore himself was busily conversing with Fawkes over a quick breakfast in his office before going to Hermione's, Harry was rather surprised by this turn of events, though he quickly decided that it was infinitely preferable to breakfast with Snape.

Harry grew even more pleased when he realized that there was a folded piece of parchment tucked under his silverware. Opening it, he read:

 _Dear Harry,_

 _Please join me in my office for lunch today at noon. My preparations on your behalf having been brought to a satisfactory completion, there is much to say and much to do. I look forward to seeing you then._

 _Most sincerely yours,_

 _Albus Dumbledore_

 _P.S. Please have your things packed before you come to lunch if at all possible, though there is no need to bring them with you._

Grinning, Harry set to his breakfast with a will, generously spreading marmalade over toast and relishing the smell of perfectly cooked sausages. Finally, something was going to happen!

#

Just before noon Harry approached the gargoyle outside the headmaster's office, chagrined to see Snape approaching from the other direction.

Snape didn't look happy to see him, but he didn't look the least bit surprised, either. When Harry stopped in front of the gargoyle, he barked, "Well, Potter? It's rude to keep the headmaster waiting." Without waiting for a response, he bit out the password (fainting fancies) and swept up the spiral staircase ahead of Harry.

Gulping, Harry followed.

When he walked into the headmaster's office a few steps behind Snape, Harry saw that the headmaster was sitting with a fine-boned woman with dark hair, pale skin, and freckles (though not quite as many as a Weasley), bent close as if in deep conversation.

Looking up, the headmaster greeted them. "Severus, Harry! Welcome, my boys, welcome. Severus, if you could show Harry to the dining room, Maureen and I will join you in just a moment. Everyone else is here."

Nodding curtly, Snape turned back to Harry. "Come, Potter."

Harry followed him across the room, his spirits suddenly dismal. Of course it had to be Snape who was involved, out of all the possible teachers and Order members.

"In." Snape had led him to a door that Harry had never noticed (Dumbledore's office contained so many fascinating things that a mere door had never garnered so much as a second glance from him). Inside, Harry found himself in a hallway, with a stairway upwards to his left, two doors on the wall opposite, and another door facing the stairs at the end of the hallway to the right.

Harry had no time to be curious, however, as Snape has already crossed to the nearest door and was pulling it open. "In," he ordered again, all but propelling Harry through the doorway.

Inside, a dining table was set for six. Two people were already there, and they both turned to smile at him. Harry rushed forward to crush the curly-haired figure into a tight hug, as ecstatic as he had been despondent merely moments before.

"Tonks! Hermione! It's so good to see you."

"Wotcher, Harry!" Tonks grinned back, her hair turning turquoise as she spoke.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked around Hermione's hair, still clutching the friend he had not expected to see so soon.

"Dumbledore needed someone, and he reckons I'm less likely to be suspected than most of the other choices. Besides, happens my metamorphmagus abilities may come in handy."

Harry nodded, finally releasing Hermione. "And you! How are you here? I didn't think I'd get to see you for months, at the least."

Hermione smiled back, though it struck Harry that she looked somewhat strained. As did Tonks, when he looked beyond the bright hair and big smile, Harry realized with surprise. Suddenly nervous, he added, "Are you okay? Is everything all right?"

"Everything's fine," she reassured him. "I— I'm coming with you."

"You're what?"

"I'm coming with you. I told the headmaster it wasn't right to send you into hiding alone, and he agreed that I could come with you. So here I am."

Eyes burning, Harry hugged her fiercely, wondering simultaneously how Hermione had managed to convince Dumbledore to include her, and what he had done to deserve such a friend.

Behind them, Severus Snape rolled his eyes at such a maudlin display, and Tonks glared back at him.


	4. 3: Adoption

A/N: Thank you for the readership and the reviews! Almost all the questions asked so far will be answered fairly naturally in the course of the story (some in this chapter), so I'll let them be answered as the story unfolds (though feel free to keep asking). I can safely say that yes, you will be seeing more of Luna, though she's not quite at the center of this story, and we won't be encountering her (or any other students) for a few chapters yet.

Also, apologies to anyone who actually knows Latin for my mangling of the language. It's been over a decade since I studied it, so I'm sure that despite my best intentions some errors have crept in.

Disclaimer: Not my sandbox, I just play here.

* * *

The fine-boned woman with the dark hair and freckles was named Maureen O'Malley, Harry and Hermione learned at lunch. But they learned little else during the meal, either about her or Dumbledore's plan. Upon closer inspection had blue-grey eyes under strong, straight brows; a long, straight, rather thin nose; a small, tight-lipped mouth; and a slightly pointy chin. It was clear from the conversation that she knew both Dumbledore and Snape fairly well, but not Tonks. To Harry her face seemed vaguely familiar, and halfway through the meal he realized that she had been in the photo of the original Order that Mad-Eye had shown him nearly two years before.

The adults spent most of lunch discussing the new security measures being instituted by the Ministry, the three adults familiar to the teens enumerating them to the strange woman with extensive commentary from both Tonks and Snape. No one present seemed to be the least bit reassured by any of the Ministry's enhanced security procedures. Tonks complained that they were a nuisance and Snape contemptuously described them as "idiotic if entirely unsurprising." Dumbledore carefully did not voice any opinions, which gave Hermione a very good idea of his feelings on the subject.

Neither of the teens contributed much to the conversation, for vastly different reasons. Harry was irritated with Dumbledore for _still_ not explaining his plan, and at everyone else for calmly eating and chatting as if there was no other point to their lunch than casual socializing. He was startled at the discovery that Snape of all people could engage in casual conversation, but sourly noted that Snape always demonstrated previously-unimagined abilities and interests at the most annoying possible moment (like refereeing Quidditch). Harry ate quickly, finishing each course well ahead of the others, and sat fidgeting in his seat as he waited, only vaguely following the adults' conversation.

Hermione, for her part, found the conversation quite illuminating. She sat listening in rapt attention, only half noticing her food as she ate. She attempted to listen in silence, half afraid that the adults would speak less freely if they realized how much information she was gleaning from their discussion, half not wanting to disturb the flow of a conversation she already found so informative. Once or twice a question slipped out, and Dumbledore twinkled at her as he answered, but for the most part she sat quietly, digesting the information and opinions she was acquiring—and profoundly grateful that she would not need to trust the Ministry for protection over the coming months.

#

When everyone had at last finished eating and the dishes had disappeared from the table with a quiet pop, the lunch conversation drew to a close.

Turning to the teenagers, Dumbledore addressed them. "I know you are both wondering about our plans for you. Thank you for your patience over the past hour." He smiled, and Harry guiltily realized that his exasperation had been all too plain to the headmaster.

Dumbledore continued, "I had previously promised Harry that you would not be stuck inside somewhere for an indefinite period, and you will not be—though we will attempt to create the impression that Harry is hiding somewhere under such circumstances."

Both teens nodded, Hermione more quickly than Harry, and the headmaster went on.

"However, the wizarding world is not currently a safe place for Harry Potter, and I'm afraid we cannot risk sending you into the Muggle world, without magical protection. So you will remain in the magical world, but as someone else—as two someone elses, in fact." Dumbledore beamed at them, glowing in satisfaction at the cleverness of his plan.

"But Sir," Hermione questioned anxiously, "Aren't magical disguises vulnerable to magical detection? Isn't that quite as risky as going to ground in the Muggle world?"

"Ah." The headmaster inclined his head. "If I were proposing to use any of the numerous magical methods explicitly intended for disguise, that would indeed be a problem. But you will not be using disguises, per se. I am proposing something rather more durable. Under ordinary circumstances… Well, perhaps it is best to say that the circumstances are extraordinary."

He paused for a moment before asking, "Are either of you familiar with blood adoptions? Specifically, blood adoptions in the old ritual form?"

Harry shook his head. "Wizards have magical adoption procedures?" he asked, flummoxed.

Hermione's eyes opened wide and her mouth formed an involuntary 'o' as she nodded. "I've read about them, Sir, though they haven't been common for several centuries, have they?"

Turning to Harry, she explained, "In the old form of magical blood adoption, adoptees literally accept the blood of their adoptive parents, causing extensive magical and physical changes. Their physical form and—well, not their magic, but significant portions of their magical signatures, if they're magical—change to reflect what they would have been had they been born to their adoptive parents. It's rather all-encompassing from what I've read, though it can't give someone magical abilities who wasn't born with them. It was used fairly often on muggleborns during the middle ages, but it gradually fell out of common use over the eighteenth century."

Frowning, Hermione looked back at Dumbledore. "It's rather a lot to ask of everyone, though, isn't it? I mean, for me and Harry I understand: the advantages are obvious. But it's a huge commitment on the part of our adoptive parents as well."

At this Snape muttered something under his breath, which might have been "from the mouths of babes."

After shooting a quelling look at Snape, Dumbledore nodded gravely to Hermione. "Indeed, it is quite a significant commitment, and I am glad to hear you recognize it. And yet I have found two willing parents, and with them a background that should withstand scrutiny."

The strange woman spoke up, smiling gently at Harry and Hermione. "Really, it's my pleasure to assist you. I've lived in seclusion for some years, so much so that no one will have reason to doubt that you are my natural children when your existence is made known. I have very little family left—none close—and my dearest friends are dead or worse. I will be rejoining them soon, and I will meet them more easily for having done this—especially your mother, Harry."

"You're dying?" Hermione blurted out, aghast.

"You knew my mum?" asked Harry, in the same moment.

"Yes, and yes," she responded. "At some point my magical core became inflamed, and I'm afraid I was horrible about visiting the healers' for some years. By the time anyone noticed, it was too far gone to fix. The healers are keeping me quite comfortable, but at this point that's all they can do. I have a little time—perhaps as little as one month, perhaps as long as three, but it won't be long now."

She said this calmly, betraying no more emotion than someone commenting on the weather. Both Harry and Hermione's mouths gaped open, staring in horror at the woman's matter-of-fact announcement of her own impending death.

Impossibly, she laughed. "Please, don't be sad for me. I've outlived nearly everyone I love by more than fourteen years—had more time than I knew what to do with, in some ways. I'm ready to see them all again."

Smiling faintly, she continued. "I was in the same year as your mother at school, Harry, though I was in Ravenclaw and she was in Gryffindor, so we didn't really get to know each other until our NEWT classes. It was after Hogwarts that we became close. There were four of us in the Order, young women who'd graduated within a year of each other: Lily, Alice, Marlene, and me. Marlene and I had been in Ravenclaw, the other two in Gryffindor. We were the greatest of friends. War does that—binds people together—when it doesn't rip them apart. I'm the only one left, at least in the ways that count. Adopting you, giving you what protection I can—both of you—it's the least I can do, for Lily and for the fight against Him."

Harry felt a lump forming in his throat when she spoke of his mum—people discussed her so rarely with him (especially since he didn't count Petunia's catty comments). He held the shreds of newly-gained knowledge close, hoping he would get a chance to ask Madam O'Malley more about his mum later.

Hermione, less distracted than her best friend and more conscious of the basic requirements of blood adoptions, turned her head to survey the other adults at the table. Her gaze stopped on Snape, trepidation writ large on her face, but she did not speak.

Instead Dumbledore continued. "As Miss Granger has indicated, the adoption will alter you both physically, and change your magical signatures enough that no one will be able to trace you by that means. You will be able to switch back to your current selves when necessary—let me say now, Harry, that it is absolutely essential that when you finally face Tom you do so as yourself—though I believe the process of changing physical forms is physically taxing and not to be undergone lightly.

"You will spend the next month or so with Madam O'Malley at her home in Ireland. You must learn as much as you can about the area so that you can convincingly claim to have grown up there, and pursue your acquaintance with her as much as her health allows.

"Later in the summer she will 'reveal' your existence to your father on account of her failing health, and he will take you into his custody, allowing you to enroll at Hogwarts in the fall as new students."

"Our father?" asked Harry, suddenly realizing that their second adoptive parent had not been named.

"One would think," sneered Snape, "that even you, Mr. Potter, would be able to make such an obvious deduction."

Silently admonishing Snape with a look, Dumbledore answered Harry's question. "Professor Snape has agreed to be your father. It is my hope that the two of you will learn to see past your differences, but at a minimum I expect you to tolerate each other."

"Snape?" squawked Harry. "Snape! But he hates me! Hates both of us, really."

"There's no need to be so dramatic, Potter," Snape responded in a cold voice.

"Why did you agree to this, anyway?" Harry questioned, suddenly suspicious. "Are you just doing this so you can hand us over to Vol—"

"Do _not_ say his name in my presence!" roared Snape. "And do attempt not to be such a dunderhead, Potter. If I wanted to hand you over to the Dark Lord, I could manage it with far less inconvenience to myself."

"Then why? Why adopt me—us—when you hate me?" pressed Harry.

"My reasons are my own, and not for you to know." Snape countered.

Dumbledore broke in. "Harry, I can assure you that Professor Snape's reasons are everything that is honorable. But you must respect his privacy in this."

Grudgingly, Harry nodded. It wasn't like his feelings mattered much—they never had, not on the important questions. Besides, after his outburst the week before Harry badly wanted to seem mature in front of the headmaster, which stifled the impulse to blurt out several of the thoughts that came to his mind.

Hermione nodded too, mind still reeling from the influx of information. She was more than a little apprehensive at the idea of Snape as a father herself, especially with Harry in the mix. But the analytical part of her brain was in high gear, and she could already see several advantages to the headmaster's plan, even so, the greatest of them being that it would put the two of them under the Order's protection without revealing their identities.

"Sir?" Hermione ventured, a new difficulty occurring to her as she considered. "What about Harry's scar? Since it's a curse scar, it's not likely to be affected by a blood adoption, is it?"

Dumbledore twinkled at her again, the expression on his face strangely like Professor Flitwick's when she answered a particularly difficult question in class. "Indeed you are correct, Miss Granger. The blood adoption alone would not be enough to hide Mr. Potter's scar.

"However," he continued, "Professor Snape has been kind enough to brew a potion that will allow me to _move_ his scar to a less obvious location—and the magic of the adoption ritual will make it permanent.

"One of the more interesting features of the blood adoption ritual is that all potions affecting the adoptee's physical form at the time of the ritual are made permanent. Perhaps you recall the most famous example, Miss Granger?"

When Hermione shook her head he continued. "The adoption in question occurred in 1684. A young wizard named Wulfric Crawley convinced his aunt and uncle to perform the adoption ritual while he was under the influence of a gender-switching draught—a potion which usually lasts no more than 3-4 hours at most. Her adopted name was Serena Crawley, and she lived out her remaining 133 years as a witch—far more happily than she had lived her first 16 years as a wizard, by all accounts. My grandmother was a friend of hers…" Dumbledore drifted off, lost in reminiscences.

"Yes, well… to get back to the point—in Harry's case, the plasticity potion will allow me to move Harry's scar long enough to perform the ritual, though I expect it to take my full effort and concentration to keep it there. That is one of the reasons for Ms. Tonks' presence—I will need her to oversee Harry's adoption ritual in my stead."

Tonks nodded at this, as did Snape and Madam O'Malley, all unsurprised. Clearly Dumbledore had gone over the logistics with all of the adults ahead of time.

Seeing that the teens understood, Dumbledore went on. "We will also be giving both of you small doses of age suppression potion, to make you appear slightly younger than you are. We'll dose you so that you appear to be not quite 14—your birthday will be in August, so you will enter Hogwarts as 4th year students in the autumn.

"There are several reasons for this. Most importantly, that is the timing that fits the historical details, should anyone bother with the arithmetic. I also feel that it will be easier for you to maintain your new personas if you have an entirely new set of classmates. By the same token, I have consulted with the sorting hat, and it has agreed not to put you in Gryffindor so long as there are other suitable options. Moreover, it is my hope that the easier course load will leave you with more time and attention for extracurricular training. Finally, by making you younger we will delay Tom's interest in you—he seems to have very little interest in children, in general, except occasionally as tools to punish their parents, and never before they are 16 or so. By making you appear younger we will give you an extra buffer—or at least that is our hope.

"Do you have any questions before we proceed with the ritual?"

Harry and Hermione looked at each other, both overwhelmed. Hermione was somewhat reassured that the headmaster had such complete answers to all the questions that had occurred to her so far—and answered several others before she could think of them. She was glad that she would be able to continue at Hogwarts, even in fourth year classes. The plan was not as bad as she had feared it might be.

Harry felt no such reassurance, so deeply alarmed by the prospect of Snape as a father (would he be as bad as the Dursleys? worse?) that he barely registered the other details. It was worse than anything he'd imagined, except being shut up in Grimmauld Place. Without Hermione's interest in or knowledge of the intricacies of magical processes, Harry couldn't grasp the subtleties of the plan, much less be comforted by them. The only comforts he clung to were that he wouldn't have to face Snape for something like a month, and that he'd have Hermione with him.

The two friends communicated wordlessly, in the quirk of Hermione's mouth and the slight movement in Harry's shoulder, before turning as one to Dumbeldore and the other adults and replying no. There would be time for questions later, when they knew what to ask.

#

Surprisingly, Dumbledore asked them to change into pajamas for the adoption rituals, explaining that their shapes would be changing enough that it would be easier if their clothes did not need to fit exactly. They were each given a pair of sky blue flannel pajamas, complete with matching slippers and robes, and sent to change in the small bathroom off the headmaster's office.

When they returned, Tonks ushered them into the room next door to the one where they'd had lunch, which turned out to be sparsely furnished except for the bookshelves (full of what appeared to be administrative records, some of them quite old). The bookshelves covered the walls from floor to ceiling, broken only by the door and two windows, each with a window seat. A purple plush armchair—undoubtedly conjured by Dumbledore—sat in the middle of the room, with a small folding table set perhaps a meter in front of it.

Wordlessly, Harry and Hermione crossed over to the nearer window seat and set their piles of clothes and shows on it, since it seemed to be the only place available (and neither was keen on holding a pile of clothes containing underwear for a moment longer than necessary).

Snape was finishing a long incantation over a pair of potions set on the folding table while Dumbledore and Madam O'Malley looked on. When he finished, he nodded to Dumbledore, who beckoned Harry and Hermione over.

The potions appeared identical, except that one flask was nearly half again as full as the other. Snape thrust the fuller flask into Hermione's hands, and the less full one into Harry's.

"The age suppression potion," he barked at them. "Drink—all of it, mind you."

It didn't taste particularly bad—at least as potions went—but the sensations it created were far from pleasant. Both felt themselves shrinking into themselves, both vertically and in other places. Hermione lost two inches in height, Harry four and a half. Feeling a strange lightness in her chest, Hermione looked down and was suddenly glad to be wearing pajamas: she was suddenly much less well endowed than she had been, and it would have been humiliating to stand there in her suddenly-far-too-big bra. Both teens felt extremely awkward and strangely vulnerable, standing there in pajamas and bodies they'd grown out of.

Smiling at them as if nothing peculiar had happened, the headmaster directed Hermione to the unoccupied window seat and asked her to hold Harry's robe and slippers, explaining that they would do his adoption ritual first.

Snape produced another potion—this one a shimmering, translucent white—and directed Harry to drink it, as well. This one tasted rather like citrus—really quite pleasant—but didn't seem to do anything that Harry could tell.

After setting a small dagger and bowl on the table, Dumbledore directed Harry to sit in the chair, with Snape and Madam O'Malley standing on either side. Turning to Tonks, he said, "When I give the word, start the adoption immediately. Go as quickly as you are able, but do not rush. It will likely be tiring for me to hold the scar in its new place, but we cannot risk mistakes in this. Are you ready?"

Tonks nodded, her hair turning jet black and spikey with determination.

Standing a few feet back, where he would not be in the way of the standard portion of the adoption ritual, Dumbledore drew his wand and, with a small flourish, pointed it at Harry's scar. He didn't speak an incantation, but slowly the scar began to move sideways across Harry's forehead. After dipping down his temple, the jagged scar disappeared into the skin at the edge of Harry's hairline behind his right ear.

"Now." Dumbledore's single word to Tonks sounded like it cost him something to say—he stood easily and his wand was steady, but clearly even with the shimmering white elasticity potion it took a large amount of magical energy to hold the scar even 8" from its usual spot.

Tonks began the adoption ritual, her voice unusually serious. "Do you, Severus Tobias Snape and Maureen Lara O'Malley, agree to adopt this child, making him blood of your blood, flesh of your flesh, heart of your hearts?"

They answered in unison, "We do."

"Do you, Harry James Potter, consent to be adopted of Severus Tobias Snape and Maureen Lara O'Malley?"

His voice trembled, but Harry was not a Gryffindor for nothing. He did not hesitate in answering "I do."

Taking the small dagger and bowl from the table, Tonks walked to Madam O'Malley and handed her the dagger. Still more serious than Harry had ever heard her, she intoned: "If you would have this boy be your son, let your blood flow into this bowl by your own hand, so that it may flow through him."

Taking the dagger, Madam O'Malley cut into her palm and twisted, letting blood flow freely into the small bowl. When enough was collected, she wiped the knife on her handkerchief and handed it back to Snape, then used her wand to silently heal the cut in her hand.

Tonks brought the dagger and bowl to Snape, repeating the same words. Snape did as the woman had done, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts or feelings.

Walking to stand in front of Harry, Tonks dipped the dagger in the bowl, swirling it around to mix the blood. Withdrawing the dagger, she used the flat of the blade to draw symbols in the mixed blood on the palms of Harry's hands. Kneeling, she set the bowl down (with a sigh of relief, which reminded everyone to be nervous about her clumsiness), and did the the same on Harry's bare feet. Rising, she drew similar symbols on Harry's strangely bare forehead. Dipping the blade once more, she drew it across his closed mouth, darkening his lips.

Perhaps strangely, none of the blood dripped, though Harry found that it did tickle (as he tried valiantly not to think about it). But then, it was a magical ritual.

Putting the dagger away in a fold of her robe (much to Harry's unspoken relief), Tonks looked once again to the adults flanking the armchair. "What name do you give your son?"

"Hadrian Walter O'Malley Snape," answered Madam O'Malley.

Tonks held the bowl over Harry's head and began to speak, pouring the remaining blood onto the top of his head as she did so (where it neither dripped nor splashed).

"By word and by blood, in fact and in deed, become now Hadrian Walter O'Malley Snape." Switching into Latin, she repeated herself (or nearly). "Ex verbis sanguineque, in actioni et in nomini, puer nunc adoptaticius est."

Snape and Madam O'Malley joined in then, wands out, as the three of them chanted, weaving words and magic together as they stood in a triangle around Harry. The room grew brighter around the four of them as they went on, until they disappeared into a nimbus of white light.

At the center of all this magical activity, Harry shut his eyes against the brightness. His last thought before he lost consciousness was surprise that he could no longer feel the blood on his skin or scalp.

When the light cleared, Dumbledore quickly lowered his wand.

Ensconced in the armchair where Harry had sat was a boy who did not resemble him at all, apparently asleep. His dark hair lay flat against his head, long enough to brush the back of his neck. With his large arched nose, strong brows, thin face, and high cheekbones he bore a distinct resemblance to Snape, though his chin appeared to come from Madam O'Malley, as did his pale skin and the smattering of freckles visible on his face.

There was no trace of a lightning bolt scar on his forehead, and not a single drop of blood was visible, either on the boy or in the area around him.

Snape pulled yet another potion from his robes—this one Hermione thought she recognized as being a rather powerful pain relief drought and muscle relaxant—and spelled it into Harry's stomach.

When this was done, Dumbledore crossed to stand next to Snape and in front of the sleeping boy. Snape folded the boy's right ear forward and pulled the hair behind it back, allowing the two men a good glimpse of the infamous scar.

Even with the boy's hair pulled all the way back, it was half-hidden behind the boy's hairline, leaving only a few jagged lines visible, the outer ones apparently unconnected to the middle two lines, which met in a V.

Snape nodded to Dumbledore. Somewhat grudgingly he admitted, "That worked better than I expected."

Dumbledore beamed. "It exceeds even my own expectations, Severus. If anyone notices it—which seems unlikely—he can convincingly say that he acquired the scars while trying to give himself a haircut with a pair of enchanted scissors as a small boy… I knew a wizard once who had very similar marks from just such a mischievous childhood adventure, though they were on the back of his neck and thus rather more visible."

"That is utterly idiotic, but I suppose that will make it all the more convincing to anyone familiar with the boy."

Ignoring Snape's snide comment, Dumbledore summoned Harry's robe and slippers from Hermione's lap. He spelled the slippers onto the boy's feet and draped the robe over his sleeping frame, then sent the armchair gently sailing to a dark corner of the room. The boy who no longer looked like Harry did not stir.

Dumbledore conjured a second armchair, identical to the first, exactly where the first one had been. Turning to Hermione, he explained, "He will sleep for quite some time, probably into tomorrow.

"Are you ready, Miss Granger?" He gestured to the chair.

Hermione nodded. Leaving her own robe and slippers on the window seat, she went to sit in the newly-conjured purple plush armchair, noting with private pleasure that it was nearly as comfortable as the overstuffed armchairs in the Gryffindor Common Room.

This time Tonks took Hermione's previous place in the window, and Dumbledore led the ritual.

"Do you, Severus Tobias Snape and Maureen Lara O'Malley, agree to adopt this child, making her blood of your blood, flesh of your flesh, heart of your hearts?" asked the headmaster.

For a second time they answered, "We do."

"Do you, Hermione Jean Granger, consent to be adopted of Severus Tobias Snape and Maureen Lara O'Malley?"

"I do," Hermione responded, chin up.

This time Dumbledore approached Snape first with the bowl and dagger, both of which appeared clean, as if they had not been used in the first ritual. The headmaster spoke: "If you would have this girl be your daughter, let your blood flow into this bowl by your own hand, so that it may flow through her."

When Snape had finished with dagger and bowl, Dumbledore took them to Madam O'Malley and repeated the words and procedure.

Standing in front of Hermione, Dumbledore did as Tonks had done, first using the dagger to mix the blood, then using the flat of the blade to draw symbols in blood on her hands, feet, and forehead before drawing the bloody blade across Hermione's firmly closed lips.

The small part of Hermione's brain that was not occupied either with following the ritual or registering disgust at the sensation of blood on her lips noticed that once again the blood did not appear to be dripping at all.

"What name do you give your daughter?"

Again it was Madam O'Malley who answered. "Helena Marlene O'Malley Snape."

Holding the bowl over Hermione's head, Dumbledore intoned: "By word and by blood, in fact and in deed, become now Helena Marlene O'Malley Snape." As he did so, he tipped the bowl, pouring the blood onto the top of Hermione's head.

Switching into Latin, the headmaster proclaimed, "ex verbis sanguineque, in actioni et in nomini, puella nunc adoptaticia est."

And once again there were three wands out, as Madam O'Malley joined Dumbledore in chanting, voices rising and falling as words and magic wove together to form bright light, no less intense than the light around Harry had been.

Hermione tried to catch the words, but the three were not speaking in unison, and the intensity of magic surrounding her was distracting. She shut her eyes against the growing brightness, and moments later she too lost consciousness.


	5. 4: Hadrian & Helena

A/N: For clarity, I will be referring to both Harry and Hermione by the name associated with whichever form they are wearing at the time. Remember, Harry = Hadrian and Hermione = Helena.

Thank you for continuing to read, and for all the reviews. I love seeing your reactions, questions, and feedback!

Disclaimer: Not my sandbox, I just play here.

* * *

When the boy who had been Harry Potter awoke it was morning. Groaning at the soreness of all his muscles, he blearily tried to remember what chores Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had had him doing yesterday to make his whole body ache so much. But no, the bed was far too comfortable and the bedding far too thick for him to be at Privet Drive.

Memories of the previous afternoon returned in a rush, and Hadrian sat up in bed with a start. He reached towards the bedside table for his glasses, confused not to find them, before realizing with shock that he didn't need glasses at all. Looking around, he saw that the bed and bedding were almost identical to those in Gryffindor tower, but this was not a dormitory room. It was a single bedroom, though not the one he'd been staying in since the end of term, either. The furniture was all solid oak: nightstand, dresser, wardrobe, bookshelf, desk. An armchair in one corner was upholstered in scarlet, matching the carpet, and on closer inspection the seat of the desk chair was upholstered to match. The room was curiously devoid of décor, as if it were meant to be personalized but didn't have an occupant. The overall effect was far less elegant than the guest room where he had been staying since term ended, but far more comfortable to his sensibilities.

His—Harry Potter's—trunk was against one wall. The books the headmaster had given him were piled on the dresser, along with what looked like a change of clothes, a black leather satchel, and—strangely—several quills that he recognized as having come from his trunk.

Peering over the side of the bed and seeing the sky blue slippers neatly aligned, Hadrian swung his legs out and slid his feet into the slippers. After making the bed (a habit long ago instilled by Aunt Petunia), he peered out the window. There was not much of a view, since there was a roof slanting upwards a stone wall perhaps 5 meters away, with a flying buttress blocking part of the view. But the color and detail of the stonework reassured him that he was still at Hogwarts, if in a room he'd never seen before.

Satisfied at having at least some idea where he was, Hadrian turned to the pile of clothes on the dresser. They were new, and rather like a school uniform, though there was no crest embroidered anywhere that he could see, nor any school tie. There were navy slacks, a white button-down collared shirt, and a soft grey V-neck sweater. There was even a pair of black leather loafers at the bottom of the pile. The underwear and socks were new and definitely Muggle in manufacture, both 3-packs.

Well, they were far nicer than anything he'd ever been given by the Dursleys, if rather formal for his taste. Hadrian stared at the clothes, wondering if he ought to get dressed in them.

Happily, he was saved from indecision by a knock at the door.

"Come in," he called, turning towards the door.

Dumbledore entered, smiling as usual. "I see that you're awake, my boy. Excellent, excellent. How are you feeling?"

"Er, a bit sore, Sir, but fine." Hadrian started at the sound of his own voice. It was boyish, but somehow still richer and smoother than Harry's voice had ever been. He suspected immediately that it would sound very like Snape's when he was older, if hopefully less harsh.

Dumbledore's smile widened at the sound of that voice, thinking how like and yet unlike young Severus's it sounded. "Your sister is still asleep," he informed Hadrian, "though I expect she will wake sometime in the next hour or so."

"My sister?" Hadrian asked blankly.

"Ah." Dumbledore withdrew a slip of parchment from a pocket in his robes, handing it to the boy. "I believe this will help."

Hadrian unfolded the parchment and read:

 _Hadrian Walter Snape is the same person as Harry James Potter._

 _Helena Marlene Snape is the same person as Hermione Jean Granger._

The handwriting was very round and slightly messy, and certainly did not belong to either Dumbledore, Snape, or Hermione.

Immediately upon reading it, Hadrian found himself remembering Hermione's presence during the previous afternoon's events, which he had inexplicably failed to remember. Or perhaps not so inexplicably, he realized, remembering the scrap of paper in Dumbledore's handwriting that he'd been shown to learn the location of Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

"You used the Fidelius Charm?" he asked Dumbledore.

"Very good, my boy. We did indeed—it seemed prudent. Though as I'm sure I need not remind you, such charms are not entirely foolproof."

Hadrian nodded. At the very least, it would be much harder to give himself away by accident. He also realized that it gave him some insurance against Snape handing them over to Voldemort, and sighed in relief.

"Who's the Secret Keeper?" he asked, curious.

"Ms. Tonks."

Well, that was all right then. Hadrian had always liked Tonks, and he trusted her, too.

Dumbledore peered at him from over the top of his spectacles. "Would you like to get washed up? I can show you to the loo, if you like."

"Yes please," Hadrian responded immediately, suddenly conscious of the pressure on his bladder. Grabbing pile of clothes, Hadrian followed the headmaster from the room.

#

Upon entering the bathroom, Hadrian focused all his attention on the business of relieving his bladder, keeping his gaze downwards to avoid catching a view of himself in a mirror.

Still looking down, he ran a hot bath, as the headmaster had suggested that a bath might ease his sore muscles. After undressing as quickly as possible, he eased himself into the hot water and felt his leg muscles relax into the warmth. Hadrian lay back and enjoyed the sensation, grateful to the headmaster for the suggestion and wondering why he'd never thought to do such a thing before. Of course, the Dursleys never would have let him relax in a hot bath—it would have violated their firm principle of never allowing Harry anything that might make him happy—but he could have done this after Quidditch if only he'd thought of it.

When at last the bath water began to grow cold—and Hadrian's fingers had grown quite wrinkled—he reluctantly levered himself out of the bath. Unthinkingly he looked up as he reached for a towel, and caught sight of his reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the door.

Hadrian stood dripping onto the bathmat as he stared, the towel he held in one hand entirely forgotten. Stood taking in the hair (already greasy—why hadn't he thought to wash it?), taking in the nose that dominated his horrified face.

He looked like a miniature Snape.

No, that wasn't _quite_ fair. He looked like a miniature Snape with a pointier chin and a sprinkling of freckles. Ugh.

Putting the towel back he stepped towards the shower, checking that it contained shampoo. Finding that it did, he got inside and determinedly began to wash his hair. Just because he looked exactly like Snape didn't mean he had to copy Snape's bad hygiene, he told himself firmly.

As he toweled himself off afterwards, he examined himself in the mirror again. Freshly washed his hair didn't look quite so bad—in fact it was almost wavy—and the resemblance was slightly weaker. Very slightly.

The rest of his body hadn't changed too much, that he could tell. He was still thin and wiry, with narrow shoulders, narrower hips, and muscles that were lean but strong. His fingers and toes were longer and thinner, but at least his penis appeared pretty much the same. (Shuddering, he decided that he did not want to ever know if it looked anything like Snape's.)

As he put on his socks and underwear, Hadrian decided that while his extra height would be a disadvantage as a Seeker, his build was still excellent for a Seeker and adequate for a Chaser—definitely _not_ Beater or Keeper material.

Wondering whether Dumbledore and Snape would allow him to keep playing Quidditch occupied his mind as he finished dressing and returned to his room. The possibility that he would not be allowed to play filled him with anxiety, but even so it was better than contemplating his new reflection.

# # #

While Hadrian soaked his aching muscles in the bath, the girl who had been Hermione Granger was waking up.

Hermione Granger had never done the kinds of physically demanding chores that Harry Potter's relatives expected of him, nor had she endured any high-intensity Quidditch practices, the two sets of experiences that had prepared Hadrian for the all-over ache that he felt upon waking. Nor had Hermione Granger ever endured a nasty bout of flu, which might have felt similar; she had always been unusually healthy, to the point that when she first found out she was a witch she had initially assumed that witches and wizards must not get sick like normal people.

In short, the girl who had been Hermione Granger had absolutely no preparation for the way her entire body hurt when she first woke up as Helena Snape.

In the moment she came to consciousness, she immediately wished she hadn't. Every fiber of her body hurt, including muscles she hadn't realized she had.

"Uhhhhhnnnnn," she groaned, opening her eyes but otherwise not moving. Even her eyelids hurt, she noted with consternation.

Her eyes were greeted by an expanse of scarlet directly overhead: the top of a canopy bed, with a wood and white plaster ceiling off to either side. For a moment she thought she was in her room in Gryffindor tower, but she quickly realized that couldn't be right. She never slept with the curtains open—who would, sharing a room with Parvati and Lavender?—and term was over for the year. Besides—the thought hit her with the force of a bludger—she wasn't Hermione Granger this morning.

That must be why her body hurt so much. Closing her eyes again, Helena tried to figure out why transformation via the adoption ritual was so much more draining than transformation via polyjuice.

Her mind was not moving at full speed, but even so it took her only a moment to remember that the magical and physical toll of a magical effect was directly proportional to the durability of the transformation. That would be it. Everything hurt so much because this transformation was effectively permanent, lasting until she undertook magical action to reverse it.

Comprehension did not bring relief from pain, but it did help her feel slightly more in control of the situation. Groaning, she levered herself into a sitting position and then scooted to lean against the head of the bed. Even these slight maneuvers were quite taxing, though she was rewarded for them with a position from which it was possible to survey the room.

She looked around at a room that was the mirror of Hadrian's, had she but known it. Like him, she was comforted by the sturdy oak and Gryffindor scarlet, and by the sight of her—which is to say, Hermione Granger's—trunk against one wall, between the empty bookshelf and a window. The books piled on the dresser—her own copies of the books Dumbledore had given to Harry the week before—were new to her, and as always she felt a small frisson of pleasure at the sight of books she had not yet read. She tried to read the spines from her place in the bed, but the only title large enough to make out from this distance was _Magical Plants of Ireland_.

Hermione Granger had always been driven by curiosity, particularly curiosity about things found in books. Becoming Helena Snape had not changed this essential fact. Wanting to see what the other books were was one of the few things that had the power to propel her out of bed at that moment, and propel her it did.

Slipping her feet into the blue slippers waiting by the bed, she slowly stood up and shuffled her way around the bed and over to the dresser, muscles protesting at every motion. Up close, the other books proved to be _Ireland's Most Magical Creatures_ , _A History of Wizarding Ireland_ , _A Wizard's Guide to Magical Cork_ , and _Principles of Magical Warding_.

Helena felt her fingers itching to grasp one of the books—preferably the book on history or the book on warding—and settle into the armchair with it, and thought perhaps she might do so after she had finished inspecting her surroundings.

She turned next to the pile of clothes next to the books. She found a knee-length navy pleated skirt, a long-sleeved white button-down shirt, and a grey wool V-neck cardigan. Not quite a school uniform, but bland enough to blend in quite easily. Underneath she found other items, still (thankfully) in packaging: three pairs of white knee socks, a 3-pack of white underwear, and two white sports bras. She wondered who had thought of the last, for she could not imagine that the headmaster would know enough to have picked sports bras, which were ideal because they fit much less exactly than regular bras—she had no idea at all what bra size she now wore, save that it had to be considerably smaller than before. There was also a pair of black leather Mary Jane's—like the clothes, shoes that would blend in in both the Muggle and magical worlds—and a black leather satchel.

Satisfied that the clothes appeared unexceptionable, Helena turned to look out the window—too well trained by now not to ascertain her surroundings. As the room was next door to Hadrian's, her windows held nearly the same view: a roof slanting upwards from a stone wall, with flying buttresses interrupting at intervals. Having seen the view from the window seat the previous afternoon, she was able to guess that this bedroom was more or less beneath the headmaster's chambers.

As if the thought of Dumbledore had summoned him, she heard a knock at the door.

"Come in, please," she called, realizing as he entered that he must have placed an alarm spell to notify him when she got out of bed.

"Helena, child, it is good to see you awake." He pulled out the same folded parchment he had shown to Hadrian, murmuring as he did so, "I believe this may be of some assistance."

Unfolding it she read:

 _Hadrian Walter Snape is the same person as Harry James Potter._

 _Helena Marlene Snape is the same person as Hermione Jean Granger._

As she read, details of the previous afternoon suddenly became clear—as Harry's presence inserted itself into previously incomplete memories. How interesting, she thought, to experience the Fidelius Charm in action.

Helena examined the handwriting and deduced that it must belong to Tonks, since it clearly wasn't Dumbledore's or Snape's, and it would be foolish to make a dying woman a Secret Keeper, since the secret would be so greatly loosened upon her death.

"Tonks is our Secret Keeper, Sir?" she asked, seeking confirmation.

"So she is." He smiled, pleased to see that her mind was as sharp as ever. "Now, would I be correct in assuming that you would like to use the facilities and perhaps take a nice long soak?"

"Yes, please," she said fervently. A hot bath sounded heavenly, now that he suggested it.

"I'm afraid your brother is currently occupying the main bath on this level, but if you don't mind I'd be happy to show you to the nursery bath."

"The nursery bath?" she asked.

"This level holds the family quarters attached to the headmaster's chambers," Dumbledore explained. "They've been shut up for quite some time—it's been well over a century since there was a headmaster or headmistress with a family at the school—but the House Elves have kept them up marvelously, and the plumbing was updated along with the rest of the castle's. They're also some of the most private and protected rooms in the school, which makes them ideal for the purpose—we will leave your old things here, and the castle will recognize these rooms as belonging to Harry Potter and Hermione Granger."

Exiting the room, he pointed down the corridor to the left, saying, "the main bath—the one Hadrian is using—is the last door opposite," before turning to the right and leading her to the door at the end of the corridor. He opened this door, which led into the nursery.

The room was done entirely in white, with frills and lace covering every available surface, and a surfeit of ribbons and rosettes accenting those. It was, Helena thought, the most hideously sentimental Victorian room she had ever seen… and it was lovely after a fashion, though she doubted she'd ever have any desire to linger in it beyond a few minutes.

The headmaster pointed her to a door in the right-hand wall and left her, telling her not to rush, but to come up to his office when she was ready.

Helena crossed to the bathroom with trepidation, wondering what kind of bathroom would be attached to such a nursery.

She was relieved to find a relatively normal bathroom, done entirely in white tile, with a large white claw foot tub; a white porcelain sink set into a large white-painted wooden vanity with yellow ducks stenciled on the cabinet doors; an old-fashioned white porcelain toilet (with the water tank near the ceiling and a long chain dangling from it for flushing); and a cheerful bright yellow bath mat and matching yellow towels.

But she was barely conscious of these details, entirely arrested by the reflection in the mirror above the sink.

The first thing she noticed was her hair. Hermione Granger had never woken up without needing to brush—or better, comb—her hair, because her curls always tangled themselves while she slept. Even her mother had compared Hermione's wild hair to a bird's nest when it was unbrushed. Helena Snape had straight black hair that just barely turned under at the tips. It was also, she noted with wonder, completely devoid of tangles, despite being quite thick. Mesmerized, she picked up a strand of hair and let it fall, noting with amazement that it fell exactly back into place (and with distaste that it was already slightly oily near the roots). It also looked longer that Hermione Granger's hair ever had, falling to the middle of her back—but of course it would seem longer since it didn't curl.

Framed by the straight black hair was a face that could not accurately be described as pretty, though with time it might perhaps grow to be handsome. Perhaps.

Like her brother, Helena Snape had strong brows, high cheekbones, and a rather thin face—a stark contrast from the roundness of Hermione Granger's. While the bridge of her nose was as arched as her father's and her brother's, her nose was also thin like her mother's, and so did not dominate her face in the same way. Her coloring was all her mother's: pale skin with a dusting of freckles across her cheeks and nose and blue-grey eyes.

Altogether, the reflection appeared far less warm and welcoming than Hermione's face always had. Even when she smiled tentatively at herself, there was a fierceness visible, something guarded and implacable that had not been apparent on Hermione's face even at her most stubborn. Physically, Helena Snape was obviously younger than Hermione had been: wire thin, with narrow hips and without the curves that Hermione's breasts, hips, and buttocks had created. Yet somehow her face managed to look older, and not just from the exhaustion written upon it.

Stepping closer to the mirror, Helena opened her mouth and examined her new teeth. She was dismayed but not surprised to find that they were quite crooked. Oh well. There were spells that could be used to straighten teeth—Madame Pomfrey could almost certainly perform them, if it wasn't deemed too risky for her to ask.

She ran the bath and undressed, curiously examining the rest of her new body in the mirror. She was so engrossed with her inspection that she barely noticed the ducks painted on the tiles surrounding the bath, though she was quite conscious of how wonderful the hot water felt on her aching muscles.

# # #

Bath complete, Helena dressed quickly, marveling anew at the ease of dealing with her newly straight hair. Crossing quickly through the nursery, she turned into the hallway, only to stop before an open door immediately to her left.

"Ha—Hadrian!" she called out, delighted to see him.

"Her—Helena!" he returned, turning and seeing his sister for the first time.

She flew over to him and tackled him in a tight hug. Hadrian noted happily that her hugs felt the same as ever, except that her hair no longer filled his face.

Stepping back, they examined each other.

Helena had seen Hadrian's new face briefly, of course, right before undergoing the adoption ceremony herself, so his face was in many ways less of a surprise to her than hers was to him. But it had been easy to imagine Harry's bright green eyes behind Hadrian's eyelids while he slept. Awake, Hadrian's dark eyes warred with his nose for domination of his face, making him look more Snape than ever.

Hadrian's first thought was that Helena looked much less Snapeish than he did. He wondered briefly which of them was more unlucky: him for looking so like Snape, or her for having to look at him. Finally he decided that it didn't matter: they were both unlucky to have Snape as their new father, and would be even more unlucky to attend Hogwarts as Snape's children.

After a few moments, both recognized the similarities between their faces: dark hair, pale skin, freckles, high cheekbones, and the same heavy brows adorned both faces. The brother scowled, surprising a low chuckle out of the sister.

"Sorry!" she apologized insincerely. "You look so much like Snape when you scowl, it's just too much."

At this he scowled all the harder. "Glad _you_ find it funny," he bit out sulkily.

"You'd be laughing up a storm if it were me," she responded, accurately if unkindly. "At least your face hasn't sprouted cat fur."

"I think that might be preferable," he muttered back.

"Only because it didn't happen to you," she insisted. "You have no idea how itchy it was."

At this he finally grinned, not so much conceding the point as caught up in memories of their previous escapades.

"Dumbledore said I should go upstairs to his office when I was finished in the bath," she cut into his thoughts. "I expect he meant both of us. I've just got to stow my night things in my room, and then I'm ready if you are."

"Might as well," Hadrian agreed, hoping he'd have a chance to ask Dumbledore about Quidditch when Snape wasn't around.


	6. 5: Acquisitions

A/N: Remember, Harry = Hadrian and Hermione = Helena. Thanks to my cousin KNM for her first-hand info on shops in Cork.

I apologize for taking so long to update. RL has been incredibly busy, and those responsibilities must come first. But I have no intention of abandoning this story, even if I cannot update as regularly as I would like. Thank you for continuing to read, and for your reviews. I love seeing your reactions and your feedback!

Disclaimer: Not my sandbox. I just play here.

* * *

When the two newly minted Snapes found their way upstairs and into the headmaster's office, they found Dumbledore sitting behind his desk, alone save for Fawkes. Seeing them standing in the doorway, he smiled and welcomed them in.

As they approached the desk, Dumbledore turned and pulled a tray out of a cabinet. He set the tray on top of the desk, and they saw that it contained wands. Belatedly, both children realized uneasily that their own wands had not been left out in their rooms—and consequently that they did not have them. It just hadn't seemed strange, what with everything else going on and not being accustomed to carrying their wands during the summer holidays anyway.

"Since each wand is unique, we cannot risk having either of you identified by your wands," Dumbledore explained as they approached. "Nor can we risk your cover by sending you wand shopping now—years after you are supposed to have begun using wands. But you must both have wands that respond adequately to you, and as it so happens I have a number of wands in my safekeeping."

Neither child looked happy—they had been using their wands long enough to view their wands as extensions of their selves—but they were curious, too. The tray held just over a dozen wands, more than either had seen in one place outside of Ollivander's shop.

"It would be fairly easy to explain your ownership of any of these wands," explained Dumbledore, "though there are others we can try if none of these prove adequate. Do go ahead and try them."

Hadrian began picking them up one at a time, feeling—or failing to feel—each in his hand, much as he had done five years ago when Hagrid took him to Ollivander's shop. With five years of magical training he was able to sense more of the wands, though most failed to warm to him, or felt sluggish in his hand. Still, there were three he liked enough to try casting spells with, and he moved those three off to one side so that he could try casting with them.

Helena approached the choice rather differently. Rather than picking any of the wands up, she closed her eyes and ran her hand over the tray, reaching out with her magic to sense their compatibility with it. There were two whose presence she felt far more strongly than the rest, and like Hadrian she pulled them aside to try casting spells with them.

As the two children experimented with the wands, Snape and Madam O'Malley entered the room and stopped to watch.

Of the three Hadrian tested with actual spells, one seemed slightly sluggish and another difficult to control. The third, carved from the palest wood of the three, was nicely responsive, however. If it was less perfect a match than his own holly and phoenix feather wand, the difference was not terribly noticeable. Something in his chest relaxed as he held it, not unlike the feeling he got every time he boarded the Hogwarts Express in London.

"I think this one will do for me," he said to Dumbledore, returning the other two wands to the tray. His new wand was very slightly longer than his old one, and while he found the wood strangely pale in contrast to the holly he was accustomed to, there was a warmth to its color that appealed to him.

Dumbledore examined the wand and checked against what appeared to be a registry, lying open on his desk. "Hawthorn and phoenix feather, 11 ¼", rather springy," he read to Hadrian. "Incidentally, the only wand in this group with a phoenix feather core. I'm very glad it responds to you, my boy."

Madam O'Malley came forward to examine it, too. "My brother Michael's," she stated, smiling at him. "Quite appropriate, and I'm sure he would have approved of its being put to this use."

"What happened to him?" Hadrian asked.

"He died with the rest of my family," she responded, her voice brittle yet even. "Death Eaters came one night while the family was at supper, in July 1981. They killed everyone—my parents, my brothers. Martin and Michael—they were twins, fraternal twins—hadn't even finished Hogwarts yet. Just finished with their sixth year. They never had a chance.

"I was out on an errand for the Order. Dad had been so worried about me going—it was risky, he said, and he was right, for all he didn't know any of the details—and yet I wouldn't have survived if not for that errand. As it was I returned to the Dark Mark over their house, and carnage inside. The twists of fate, the randomness of it…"

"Thank you for telling me," Hadrian replied, voice rough. He ran his fingers over the wand, trying to make sense of the fact that its last owner had been younger than Cedric when he died.

Across the room, Helena bit her lip and closed her eyes for a moment, then resumed her methodical testing of the two wands. Both were serviceable if unfamiliar, and if they had not both been available she would have accepted either without demure. Given the choice between them, however, she was determined to discover which was the better match.

They seemed to be equal in power and control, and neither felt sluggish in her hand. But as she worked up to more complex spells, she found that the wand carved from a silvery-white wood was slightly less precise than the reddish-tinted wand. Going through a series of spells that relied heavily on precision with both wands, she confirmed to herself that it wasn't a fluke: the reddish wand really was more precise.

She returned the silvery-white wand to the tray on Dumbledore's desk, realizing as she did so that everyone had been watching her. Snape—still standing in the doorway behind them—was as inscrutable as ever, Madam O'Malley looked impressed, Hadrian's lips and eyebrows were quirked in a mixture of amusement and exasperation (though the expression looked far haughtier on his face than it had ever looked on Harry's), and Dumbledore was twinkling even more than usual, whatever that meant.

"This wand seems to suit me nicely," she said, handing it to the headmaster for his examination.

"That's Marlene's," breathed Madam O'Malley, eyes rapt upon the reddish-tinted wand.

"Indeed, this wand did belong to Marlene McKinnon," confirmed Dumbledore. "Rosewood and dragon heartstring, 10 ½", firm but not rigid. A strong wand for a strong witch."

He handed the wand back to her, and Helena stroked it reverently, feeling the controlled potential resonating within it. She had read about Marlene McKinnon: she and her husband had been murdered by Voldemort himself, after incapacitating several Death Eaters—some of them permanently. Yes, she would use this wand with pride.

Dumbledore replaced the tray in the cabinet and locked it, then gestured for the three people clustered around the desk to sit down, conjuring extra armchairs as he did. Helena glanced back to the doorway, wondering whether Snape might join them, but he was already gone.

Seating himself behind the desk, Dumbledore spoke. "I'm very pleased that you were able to find adequate wands so easily. No one will question your using wands previously owned by your uncle and your mother's closest friend."

"Where is my original wand, though?" interjected Hadrian, feeling the absence of the holly and phoenix feather wand with which he'd faced Voldemort on multiple occasions.

"Why, we stowed them in your trunks—assuming you haven't removed them—in your rooms downstairs, along with the clothes you had been wearing before the adoption. All of your things will be kept there, where they are secure yet accessible.

"It is very important that you use the wand in keeping with your present form—especially for you, Hadrian. You must use Harry's wand when you are Harry, and you must absolutely use it when confronting Voldemort—who, by the way, you will both need to refer to as the Dark Lord while you are Snapes, in keeping with your father's role. But you must not bring Harry's wand if it is ever necessary for you to go before the Dark Lord as Hadrian Snape.

"As for you," Dumbledore continued, turning to Helena, "You will need to remain Helena Snape even when Hadrian transforms back into Harry Potter. The success of your new roles relies on people truly believing that Hermione Granger is dead and therefore not seeking to account for her. Even the hint of a rumor that Hermione Granger is alive could undermine both of your positions. I'm afraid I must ask you not to become Hermione Granger again until after Voldemort has been defeated for good."

When Helena had assented (she had expected no less), he continued. "You will both keep the things belonging to your old selves in the rooms you've been assigned downstairs. No one will be able to access those rooms without both knowing your Secret and wishing you well, so they should be secure. I ask that you keep everything traceable to your old identities in those rooms, including your wands, your broomstick, and yes, even the Maurader's Map and your invisibility cloak, Hadrian—they are far too unique for Hadrian Snape to own without causing exactly the kind of speculations we wish to forestall, no matter how useful they may be."

Both children nodded glumly, understanding the headmaster's reasoning but not immune to the sense of loss these instructions instilled.

"Now, there is one more thing we must settle," Dumbledore continued. "This time relating to your schooling. Since you will be entering as fourth years, you must pick electives. Given your assumed backgrounds, you will need to pick from Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Care of Magical Creatures."

"Can I take all three?" Helena queried immediately.

"I'm afraid not," answered Dumbledore. "We would never allow an unknown student to take more than the standard course load, and as Helena Snape you must be treated as an unknown student. Besides, choosing to take extra electives is rare enough that it would create just the sort of similarity between you and Hermione Granger that we most need to avoid. You really must pick two."

Helena nodded, disappointment obvious on her face. It was wrenching, but she had agreed to this—even if she hadn't understood what it meant at the time. "Arithmancy and Runes, then."

"Very well," Dumbledore nodded slowly and jotted down her choices. "Hadrian?"

"The only one of those I've taken is Care of Magical Creatures," he answered anxiously. "Can't I do Divination or Muggle Studies?"

"I'm afraid not," Dumbledore responded. "Your mother is well known to have no interest in or respect for divination as a subject, and it would be politically problematic as your father's child to be enrolled in Muggle Studies. Since you'll be entering as a fourth year you'll only have one year to make up, and I'm sure Helena will be willing to tutor you over the summer in whichever subject you choose."

Helena nodded earnestly at this, her recent disappointment offset though not erased by this suggestion. Hadrian bit back a groan, already imagining how much she would make him work. The headmaster endeavored to hide his amusement at this interchange, though given the look Madam O'Malley gave him it was clear that he did not entirely succeed.

"Runes, I suppose," Hadrian eventually responded. From the glimpses he'd caught of Hermione's homework, runes looked infinitely easier than Arithmancy, though he knew almost nothing about either.

"Excellent," Dumbledore smiled, writing down Hadrian's choices next to Helena's. "You still have your introductory textbook for them to use this summer?" he asked Madam O'Malley, who responded in the affirmative. "Good, good. Now, do either of you have any questions for me before Fawkes returns you to Ireland?"

"Yes," answered Hadrian and Helena at the same moment.

Dumbledore gestured for Hadrian to go first.

"Er, I have three questions, really," the boy began. "First, is there a reason you left those quills of mine out with your books?"

"Ah, yes, thank you for reminding me," the headmaster replied. "While you were asleep I enchanted those quills to write with Harry Potter's handwriting when you use them—and only when you use them. I apologize for not asking you in advance, but it needed to be done and they needed to belong to Harry. I suggest you take one or two with you, to write letters to your friends over the summer—which you will give directly to me to check over and deliver for you. The rest can remain here, to be used for the same purpose later on."

Hadrian nodded, as he'd suspected something of the sort. "What about Hedwig?"

"I'm afraid you cannot keep your owl with you, particularly since she is so distinctive. I was planning on giving her to Hagrid to care for, unless there's something else you'd prefer?"

For a moment Hadrian considered asking the headmaster to give Hedwig to Ginny, but he finally decided against it. Hagrid was so good with animals, and he was the one who had bought Hedwig for him in the first place.

"Okay," he responded. "My last question is about Quidditch. Will I be able to play?"

Dumbledore sighed softly. "Your father and I have had several discussions on this subject. We are agreed that it is important that you both have access to brooms and be able to fly when needed, simply as a matter of security. New brooms will be provided for both of you for this purpose, though I'm afraid they will seem quite limited in comparison to your Firebolt. Indeed, I hope that you will help your sister with flying this summer, much as she will tutor you in Ancient Runes, to make the disparity in your flying abilities as small as possible."

Helena grimaced at this—flying was really _not_ her favorite activity—but nodded grimly. She saw the logic of it: if Helena Snape was competent on a broom, it would add to the distance between her and Hermione Granger, and it would really stretch credulity if the twin sister of such a talented Quidditch player was a horrendously bad flyer.

Hadrian grinned, his expectations for summer suddenly becoming far rosier. Helena would need a lot of practice, and that meant a lot of time flying—for both of them. And the best part was that she wouldn't dare protest those hours, not when Dumbledore himself had prescribed them.

"That said, I do not think it would be wise for you to fly too often during term," continued Dumbledore. "I'm afraid, Hadrian, that you must not seem too interested in Quidditch, either as a player or as a spectator. You may fly with friends from time to time—at their suggestion—and you may even occasionally throw a Quaffle around. But I must ask that you avoid playing even informal games, and if you absolutely cannot avoid being drawn into a game, you must under no circumstances play Seeker—insist on playing some other position, and if all else fails, fake an illness or an injury. Your flying is simply too distinctive, and too likely to give you away."

Hadrian nodded, crestfallen. He couldn't disagree with Dumbledore's argument, but he hated it.

"It should go without saying, but you absolutely cannot try out or play for your house Quidditch team. If anyone should pressure you to try out, you may say that your father prefers for you to focus on your studies—an excuse which has the benefit of being true, though please believe me that your father would not deny you Quidditch were your safety not at stake."

Hadrian grimaced at this, but did not voice his skepticism. Based on the past five years, he suspected that like the Dursleys, Snape objected to allowing him anything that might make him happy. At least he'd get to fly over the summer—and maybe over breaks, if Snape listened to Dumbledore.

Satisfied that Hadrian was not arguing, Dumbledore turned to Helena. "Now, my dear, I believe you had questions as well?"

"Yes," she responded. "Or one question, for now. Our teeth."

"What about your teeth?"

"They're all crooked, Sir. Mine and Hadrian's, both. I know there are spells that can straighten them, and I was hoping…"

"I see." Dumbledore smiled, clearly amused. "Hadrian, do you have strong feelings on the matter?"

"Er, I think I'd like to have them straightened, if that's what you're asking?" Hadrian didn't care much about straight teeth per se—and he was bemused that Helena could possibly care so much—but he was in favor of anything that might make him look less like Snape, and Snape had horribly crooked teeth.

"It's not the sort of thing Severus could believably address, but if Madam O'Malley is willing I see no reason why you can't get your teeth straightened this summer in Ireland." Turning to Madam O'Malley, Dumbledore asked, "Would you be willing to oblige them? Funds can of course be provided."

"Certainly," she smiled, showing teeth that were far straighter and better cared for than Snape's. "It would be my pleasure."

Helena exhaled loudly in relief, and Hadrian smirked at the strength of her response.

# # #

Madam O'Malley's home proved to be a small cottage in the countryside outside of Cork. Hidden from the road by several turns and a copse of trees, it was nevertheless an easy walk to a Muggle bus stop a little ways down the road. The bus only came once an hour, but it took them directly to the center of the city.

Fawkes delivered them to what was clearly the entranceway, with an umbrella stand near the door, a coat rack on the wall, and a stairway directly across from the door. That first afternoon when they arrived, Madam O'Malley had them down the road and waiting for the bus before they could inspect anything beyond the front hall, explaining that the bus didn't run late and she didn't have the energy to apparate all three of them.

Upon arrival in town, their first stop was Boots, where Helena headed directly for the dental care section. After choosing toothbrushes, toothpaste, and dental floss for herself and Hadrian, she looked so relieved that Hadrian couldn't stop himself from laughing at her.

They moved quickly through the store, picking up such necessities as deodorant, hairbrushes and combs, and in Helena's case hair ties and sanitary products.

The only aisle where they lingered was the one containing shampoo. Turning to Helena, Hadrian mouthed "help," with such a display of helplessness and horror on his face that she burst out laughing.

"What we want is clarifying shampoo—that's the kind that cuts down on oil," she told him, for the first time in her life thankful for Parvati and Lavender's endless discussions of both Muggle and magical hair care. "Avoid anything that says moisturizing," she continued, looking sadly at the selection of shampoos that had worked so well on her previously dry and frizzy hair. "And we probably don't want anything that says daily, either—it'll be too gentle to work with this much oil."

"Have I told you lately that you're wonderful?" Hadrian asked, grabbing a large bottle of clarifying shampoo off the shelf, an un-Snapelike expression of pure gratitude upon his face.

She rolled her eyes and laughed in response, reading several labels before grabbing three bottles: a clarifying shampoo, a volumizing shampoo, and a matching volumizing conditioner, all from the same brand. Shaking his head and deciding he didn't even want to ask why she needed so many products, Hadrian followed her away from the aisle.

#

After Boots they went to Marks and Spencer's, where Madam O'Malley instructed them to pick out complete casual wardrobes, adding only that they were to avoid buying anything in either emerald green or bright red (obviously Dumbledore or Snape's rules) and that they shouldn't worry about shoes, as they'd get those on another day. Having given these instructions, she settled down to wait, clearly not intending to supervise their choices.

Helena immediately set off towards the junior girls' section, leaving Hadrian begging her to wait up.

"But our clothes are in different sections," she countered, exasperated. "We'll be done much faster if we split up. You don't actually enjoy picking clothes, do you?"

"I've never actually shopped for clothes in a Muggle store," he confessed. "I've no idea what to get."

"What, never?" she asked, aghast.

"Not that I can remember," he responded. "The Dursleys always gave me Dudley's old things. They would have considered it a waste of money to buy anything new for me. And of course I got all my school clothes in Diagon Alley."

Helena pursed her lips to keep herself from speaking, though the fierce frown that appeared on her forehead spoke volumes. She had always known that the Dursleys didn't treat Harry right, but she'd never realized quite how many ordinary experiences he'd never had.

When she spoke, it was not to question further. "Come on then. If we're going through both sections, we'll have to go quickly. We'll have to try things on separately, but you can decide what fits, right?"

"Yeah," he responded, too relieved to be offended by this last question.

The greatest difficulty for Helena was finding an appropriate bra—her chest was so small that she scarcely needed one, yet she knew from experience that by fourth year the other girls would laugh if she didn't wear them. She spent so long trying to decide—ultimately deciding on two, one each in black and white, each providing just enough support to qualify as wearing a bra without being ludicrous for the tiny breasts they covered—that Hadrian had to wait for her even despite the much greater trouble he'd had in figuring out which sizes fit him.

In the end, they each got a small mountain of clothes: three sets of pajamas, three pairs of jeans, two pairs of sweatpants, a sweatshirt, two sweaters, and numerous t-shirts for each of them, along with plenty of underwear and socks. Hadrian also took a pair of cargo pants, and Helena got a knee-length blue and white floral-print dress and a matching blue cardigan.

Hadrian was rather stunned by the sheer quantity of clothing: not counting his Hogwarts uniforms, it was more clothes than he could ever remember owning. He reflected dazedly that the quantities of underwear and socks that Helena deemed necessary were nearly double what he had previously owned at any point in time, though Dudley had certainly owned more. Trained by habit and experience, he did not voice these thoughts aloud.

Both Hadrian and Helena were in good spirits when they boarded the bus out of the city. The strangeness of it all made it feel like an adventure, and they were pleased with their purchases. Helena was deeply relieved to possess a full complement of comfortably familiar Muggle toiletries and clothes (most especially dental care products), as she'd feared that posing as the child of a magical family meant she'd be obliged to do without them. Hadrian was thrilled as well as awed to have an entire set of ordinary clothes that fit him for the first time in his life, even if the him they fit was not quite the one to which he was accustomed.

#

Upon their arrival back at the house, Madam O'Malley chivvied them upstairs with their bulging shopping bags.

At the top of the stairs they found a short hall with three doors: one to each side and a third directly ahead.

Pointing to the door on the left, Madam O'Malley informed them, "That's my room. You may knock if I'm in there, but please don't enter without my permission." Pointing to the door straight ahead, she continued. "That's the bathroom. There's a washroom on the ground floor as well, but the only bath is in there."

Walking to the remaining door, she opened it, gesturing them inside. "And this will be your room. You might as well put away your things and make yourselves at home."

The room was bright and cheerful, with matching patchwork quilts on the beds. On top of the quilts lay matching broomsticks, both of them obviously new. There were dressers, across from the foot of each of the beds, and matching nightstands. A low bookshelf against one wall held a collection of tattered children's books, obviously old and well-used, and a wooden rocking chair sat in one corner. The room didn't look very lived in, despite its cheerfulness.

Hadrian moved towards the bed closer to the door, dropping his bags on the floor by the bed as he bent to inspect the broom. Seeing this, Helena walked to the dresser across from the other bed and deposited her bags on top of it.

"I'll leave you to get settled, then," said Madam O'Malley from the doorway.

When Madam O'Malley had gone, Helena walked to her own bed and examined the broomstick on top of it, reading the words _Comet 290_ emblazoned on the handle. "Are they good brooms?" she asked Hadrian, genuinely curious.

"They're all right," he responded unconvincingly, unable to mask the disappointment in his voice.

Hearing it, she walked over to him and pulled him into a hug. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

Hadrian wasn't sure whether she was referring to the brooms, specifically, or this whole masquerade as mini-Snapes. He didn't ask.


	7. 6: Complications & Obligations

A/N: Remember, Harry = Hadrian and Hermione = Helena

As promised, I am continuing with this story. Thank you for continuing with it, too. As always, I appreciate your feedback. Many parts of the last scene in this chapter are likely to sound familiar, as they come from _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_ , chapter 33. Sections taken from DH are marked with an *.

* * *

Late on Friday night, Snape appeared before the gates of Hogwarts and began walking—or more accurately, staggering—towards the castle. It was his first return to the castle since his departure on Wednesday afternoon, and while he had not by any means felt cheerful on that occasion, his current mood was immeasurably more somber. He had just come from a meeting with the Dark Lord, and he urgently needed to see Dumbledore.

Snape was shaking badly by the time he reached the headmaster's office, and he did not wait for an invitation before collapsing into the armchair in front of the desk. He had one small shred of luck: despite the late hour, it was apparent that Dumbledore had not yet retired for the night, so there was no need to wake him.

"Severus? Are you all right, dear boy? Does he suspect you?" Dumbledore questioned as he approached, noting the man's unusual pallor as well as the tell-tale shaking of his limbs, and particularly worried to see Severus return from a meeting notably damaged so soon after the last time.

"He was… displeased that I could not offer him definite information on where you are hiding the boy," Snape replied to the last question, ignoring the others. "I told him that you seemed worried that the boy will soon grow restless, as we agreed—showed him the conversation we had for that purpose—but it was not enough to satisfy him. I will need to give him something tangible soon."

Dumbledore frowned and would have spoken, but Severus forestalled him.

"I have far graver news than that, I'm afraid. He has decided that his greatest obstacle to success—and to defeating the boy—is you."

At this Dumbledore smiled slightly, though his eyes remained somber.

"To that end…" Severus swallowed, and when he continued his voice shook—something the headmaster could only remember having heard on three previous occasions, all of them many years in the past. "To that end the Dark Lord has ordered your murder." He looked up, eyes bleak, fear and sorrow evident on his face in a rare moment of openness.

"I see." While serious, Dumbledore's voice was calm, and his slight smile remained. It steadied Snape very slightly. "Has he yet assigned anyone to the task?"

Snape bowed his head, pain evident in his voice as he whispered, "Draco Malfoy."

The headmaster raised his eyebrows. "Surely he does not expect the boy to be successful?"

"No. He is angry at Lucius for his failure at the Ministry, and seeks to extract vengeance on the son—though I doubt Draco will see that. The boy is so eager to prove himself…" Snape drifted off, wondering if there was anything he could have done to save the boy, and fearing that it was far too late. Yet another failure to chalk up to his account.

Snape closed his eyes, attempting unsuccessfully to compose himself.

"Severus?" Dumbledore questioned, his concern rising. "Severus, truly you seem quite unwell. How long did he hold you under the Cruciatus?"

"A minute, perhaps two."

"Have you taken a potion?"

"Of course. But we were discussing your murder, not my health."

Dumbledore smiled lightly. "I do, of course, appreciate the information. But I must think on how to proceed, as I'm sure you realize. At the moment, it is _your_ health that most immediately concerns me."

"I do not require coddling, Albus," came the stiff response.

"Will you at least rest in the castle overnight, so that I may satisfy myself as to your continued good health come morning?"

"I'm afraid I can't," Severus responded, realizing with embarrassment that he must be more rattled than he thought to have failed to report this last bit of information. "The Dark Lord has assigned Wormtail as my 'assistant' for the summer, to stay with me on Spinner's End. He's to arrive in the morning, and I must be there when he arrives."

Dumbledore frowned at this. Snape inwardly winced, realizing that this omission was likely to

trouble the headmaster as much for what it implied revealed about Severus's health and state of mind, that he had not remembered to report this earlier, as for what it implied about Voldemort's distrust of him.

His face still troubled, Dumbledore crossed to a cupboard and rummaged within, emerging with a pair of matched paperweights carved from what appeared to be onyx. Upon returning, Dumbledore placed them on the desk and frowned down at Severus once more.

"If you would do me the favor of remaining in that chair for a few minutes longer, Severus, it would be most helpful."

Snape nodded and closed his eyes, grateful for the momentary respite. Dumbledore brandished his wand and began chanting, his gestures encompassing both Snape and the two paperweights. Snape drifted into unfocused abstraction, aware of the headmaster's spell-casting without absorbing the sense of it, his normal alertness momentarily overpowered by trust and exhaustion.

Some minutes later Dumbledore finished. Snape opened his eyes at the cessation of sound to find the headmaster smiling down at him. Still smiling, Dumbledore handed him one of the paperweights.

In response to Snape's unspoken question, Dumbledore explained. "If Pettigrew is to reside with you, we will need to know when it is safe to communicate. The paperweights are linked, as I'm sure you must realize. They appear to carry standard privacy and anti-scrying wards, as indeed they do, but the important part is a secondary ward I've created. They will both be hot to the touch if there is any entity within hearing or sight range of you capable of comprehending or passing on anything you say, and cool to the touch otherwise."

Snape sighed softly, questioning how tired and shaken he must be to have failed to consider this particular difficulty. Not for the first time, he found himself torn between wondering when Dumbledore had designed such a spell and simple gratitude for his foresight.

"I realized two years ago that animagi are capable of exploiting significant weaknesses in standard protective wards and alarm spells," Dumbledore explained. "The difficulty, of course, is that we wouldn't want most wards to be set off by insects, birds, or ordinary small mammals—but that can be solved by tying the ward to comprehension, rather than humanoid life or the capability of speech. Rather ingenious, if I do say so myself. Though I didn't design it alone… Minerva was most helpful with testing and refining the incantations." Impossibly, his eyes gleamed with something approaching their usual twinkle.

Severus merely nodded, his long fingers closing over the smooth stone.

# # #

If Hadrian and Helena had not been told that Madam O'Malley—now called "mam," reminding them irresistibly of Seamus—had been in Ravenclaw, they would have guessed it upon seeing the ground floor of the cottage. The large sitting room had been furnished as a library, with bookshelves lining the walls, armchairs in the most comfortable corners for reading, a large oak desk, and an even larger oak work table, the last of which had been given over to them for their studies. Helena was frankly enchanted, and only her fondness and concern for Hadrian allowed him to successfully drag her outside for a few hours each afternoon.

The room that ought to have been the dining room was furnished as a small sitting room, with a loveseat and a couple of armchairs grouped around a coffee table. There was no television, but neither of them cared for that—Helena because she would rather read, anyway, and Hadrian because it was one more way in which this house was different from the Dursleys'.

The kitchen was Hadrian's favorite room in the house. It was cheerful and cozy, clean without the sterility of Aunt Petunia's kitchen. They ate their meals at a table tucked against one wall of the kitchen, in view of the white porcelain farmhouse sink and the yellow and white checkered curtains. While far less chaotic than the kitchen at the Burrow, the room gave Hadrian the same feelings of warmth and security.

Their days quickly settled into a rhythm.

Madam O'Malley retired early and slept late, in deference to her ill health, so the teens were left to themselves in the mornings. They quickly settled into a routine, with Hadrian making breakfast for them each morning while Helena planned out their study goals for the day. (She had, of course, drawn up color-coded time tables for both of them on the first morning after they arrived.) Hadrian enjoyed cooking breakfasts that he could eat and share with his newly-adopted sister and dear friend, particularly since she was so obviously impressed by his cooking. It was everything that cooking for the Dursleys had not been, and he was somewhat surprised to realize that he really liked cooking when away from the Dursleys.

They spent the mornings studying at the work table in the library, an hour each on two rotating subjects before lunch. Helena's only concessions to it being the summer holiday were to start work an hour later than was usual for Hogwarts classes and to finish an hour earlier—and she insisted that they study on weekend mornings, as well.

Hadrian groaned a little, but the force of five years of habit ensured his compliance, especially without Ron's counterbalancing resistance. On the occasions when he was tempted to slack off, Helena reminded him that learning these things was essential to maintaining their cover and thus aiding the war effort. Hadrian did reflect with wry amusement that it was just like her to contribute to the war effort with a color-coded study schedule, but he studied with almost the same intensity he had given to his OWLs.

Madam O'Malley cooked lunch for them each day, which they all three ate together. After lunch she tutored them both in the basics of warding—her professional specialty and the one subject in which she tutored them—and then Helena helped Hadrian with Ancient Runes for another hour, since he was finding it difficult to grasp on his own, while their mam retired to her room to rest.

After this came Hadrian's favorite part of the day: the hours they spent outside. On some days they rambled through the woods and over the rolling hills, exploring the countryside near their new home. On alternate days they took their broomsticks to a small valley hidden in the hills, 15 minutes uphill walk from the house and warded for the purpose.

Helena clearly preferred the walking days to the flying days, but she grimly kept to the schedule, both because it was important and because she knew how much it meant to Hadrian. Hadrian enjoyed their afternoons spent wandering around the countryside, but particularly prized the hours spent flying around the enclosed valley. His _Comet 290_ didn't give him the visceral pleasure of his _Firebolt_ or even his _Nimbus 2000_ , but it was still far superior to the school brooms, and above all else he loved the freedom of being in the air.

They returned home each evening for an early supper, after which the three of them would move to the sitting room and talk for an hour or two, depending on Madam O'Malley's energy. Some nights she would get into esoteric discussions of warding, arithmancy, and charms with Helena, which Hadrian could barely follow. But many nights she told them about her family, or her years at Hogwarts, or her friends from the Order of the Phoenix. Both children loved these stories, and Hadrian especially treasured the stories about Lily. Madam O'Malley seemed to enjoy these evenings as well, as if it eased her to share her stories after so many years of silence, or perhaps there was a comfort in knowing that the people she had loved so much would not be entirely forgotten.

Beneath all the cosmetic changes, each teen knew the other and the other's rhythms so well that they slipped into the pattern of their new life with relative ease. Their changed bodies and identities seemed much less strange when everything around them was equally unknown, and they were quickly becoming accustomed (though they each resented the necessity of washing their hair every day). By the time they had been in Ireland a week, both Hadrian and Helena felt like they'd been there much longer.

# # #

By that Wednesday, Snape was grudgingly beginning to accustom to himself to Wormtail's presence at Spinner's End. He had found that the rat was fond of skulking outside the door to whatever room he happened to inhabit, judging by the constant heat of Dumbledore's paperweight when Snape installed himself in the living room, the kitchen, or the small study at the back of the house. His wards would have registered any spells being used for eavesdropping, but they generally remained quiescent, suggesting that Pettigrew was using his animagus form to spy on him.

Snape had few visitors, and with Dumbledore's paperweight it was a small matter to safeguard his communications with the Order, but the surveillance by the skittering, bootlicking Gryffindor was a source of unending irritation. It was _almost_ enough to make him look forward to the impending arrival of the two brats, and his most pleasant hours those first few days were spent scheming how precisely to use their arrival as an excuse to evict Pettigrew from his home.

With its thick stone walls and unusually heavy wards, Snape's basement potions lab was his one remaining refuge at Spinner's End. As a consequence, he took to spending every possible moment in the converted basement lab, even begging a worn armchair from the Hogwarts house elves (who were delighted to oblige) and installing it in a corner for reading. Unfortunately, the Muggle-built basement was not nearly so well ventilated as the Hogwarts dungeon, and while his spells kept the room brightly lit, the brightness came at the cost of an unnatural glare. Long hours in the basement lab often left him with a nagging headache, but in his considered opinion this was far preferable to the crawling feeling he got from the knowledge that Pettigrew was listening to his every word and movement in other parts of the house.

He had spent most of Wednesday experimenting with variations on the post-Cruciatus nerve-restorative potion, and had settled for the evening with back issues of _Potions Weekly_ that he had not found time to read during the spring term. Around half-past nine, just as Snape was finishing the second issue from March, he was interrupted by the headmaster's patronus.

The silvery phoenix materialized before him, immediately commanding Snape's full attention. As always it spoke in Albus's voice, though now it was so soft and twisted by pain that he hardly recognized it. "Severus—Come quickly—my office—hurt—curse…"

Snape was out of the chair and halfway up the stairs before he knew he was moving, wand gripped tightly in his hand as he ran through the back of the house, out into the garden, and apparated to Hogwarts' gates, which opened as they recognized him and then closed silently behind him as he sprinted uphill towards the castle.

When he reached the headmaster's office, Snape found Dumbledore sagging sideways in the thronelike chair behind the desk, apparently semiconscious. His right hand dangled over the side, blackened and burned.* From the cloak thrown carelessly on the floor and the traces of drying mud and cobwebs near the hem of his robes, it was apparent that Dumbledore had managed to return to the castle after being hurt, incapacitated as he was.

A stream of curses running through his mind, Snape cast a series of diagnostic charms, his face paling as he saw the results.

The cause of Dumbledore's incapacitation was obvious: the gold ring lying atop the desk in front of the headmaster, beside the sword of Gryffindor. It was a large ring by modern standards, heavy gold inset with a black stone, with a chip on one side that looked new. To Severus' eyes the ring looked old; the style of craftsmanship dating to no later than the fifteenth century, and very probably earlier. But even more obvious than its age was the malevolent magic that radiated from it: powerful, dark, and hungry.

Severus was far more familiar with dark magic than most wizards, and had seen a far greater share of dark artifacts than any of his Hogwarts colleagues—with the sole exception of Albus. Such experience had honed his magical sense of such objects, developing his ability to sense nuances and hidden traps. But there was nothing subtle about the ring now, newly sundered from the headmaster's hand. Denied the completion of its domination and destruction, the ring's magic sang with rage fueled by denial and the astringency of unslaked hunger.

Quiescent, he knew, the dark malevolence of the ring would have been far subtler, even enticing to a naïve wizard. But Dumbledore was far from naïve, for all that he loved to play the bumbling fool. Severus did not believe for an instant that Dumbledore had not known of the danger posed by the ring, no matter the wards or illusions placed upon it. No one—not even the Dark Lord—had a more intuitive sense of magic than the headmaster, in Severus' opinion, and such powerful dark magic as the ring contained was nearly impossible to mask completely.

Yet the fact remained that Dumbledore _had_ put on the ring, and while he had escaped its clutches, its curse had clearly taken root. Arriving only now, after the curse had established itself, the appropriate question was almost certainly how much time he would be able to buy the headmaster, as it would be impossible to eradicate.

Recalling himself from his study of the ring and Albus's hand, Snape realized suddenly that he was shaking. He paused a moment to take a steadying breath, hating himself for his weakness, before rushing to the fire and flooing to his dungeon lab.

The headmaster's best hope was an Elixir of Emancipation, a thick golden potion designed to free the body of corrupting external influences, by its nature a counter to dark magics. He had all of its ingredients on hand—even the moonflower blossoms and phoenix crest feathers, thank Merlin—but it could not be stored for longer than a day before losing its potency, so he would have to brew it fresh.

#

When Snape returned to the headmaster's office nearly an hour later with a goblet of the elixir in hand, Dumbledore appeared not to have moved at all, though the blackness had crept further up his right hand. Severus cursed softly under his breath, knowing that moments now might mean days for Albus. Hurrying over to the headmaster, Snape pointed his wand at the man's wrist, incanting powerful spells for slowing and containing dark magics. With his left hand, Snape poured the thick golden potion down the headmaster's throat as he chanted. Powerful as his incantations might be—and Snape was a strong wizard—he knew that without the reinforcement provided by the potion they would be useless. Even with the Elixir of Emancipation he knew the curse could not be undone; but he hoped to contain it, at least for a time.

After a moment or two, Dumbledore's eyelids fluttered and opened.*

"Why," said Snape, without preamble, " _why_ did you put on that ring? It carries a curse, surely you realized that. Why even touch it?"*

Dumbledore grimaced.*

"I… was a fool. Sorely tempted…"*

"Tempted by what?"*

Dumbledore did not answer,* and from the set of his lips Snape knew that he would not.

"It is a miracle you managed to return here!"* The stress and terror of the last hour suddenly boiled over into fury, and Snape did not attempt to restrain his ire. "That ring carried a curse of extraordinary power, to contain it is all we can hope for; I have trapped the curse in one hand for the time being—"*

Dumbledore raised his blackened, useless hand, and examined it with the expression of one being shown an interesting curio.*

"You have done very well, Severus. How long do you think I have?"*

Snape struggled with himself, fighting the impulse to press Dumbledore for an explanation of his stupidity. Two things restrained him: the knowledge that he had never once induced Albus to divulge anything he had decided not to divulge; and respect for how much it must be costing the headmaster to speak in such a light, conversational tone.

Finally he responded, "I cannot tell. Maybe a year. There is no halting such a spell forever. It will spread eventually, it is the sort of curse that strengthens over time."*

At this Dumbledore smiled, strained but genuine. "I am fortunate, extremely fortunate, that I have you, Severus."*

"If you had only summoned me a little earlier, I might have been able to do more, buy you more time! Did you think that breaking the ring would break the curse?" said Snape furiously. He looked down at the broken ring and the sword.*

Snape did not add, "It was safe to contact me hours ago, and you had the means to be certain of that." He did not ask, "Why did you not summon me _before_ you returned here? Do you not trust me enough?" The words hung in the air between them, unsaid. Yet both men heard them, and moreover each knew that the other heard.

"Something like that… I was delirious, no doubt…" said Dumbledore.* It was a weak apology, and not enough, but Snape heard it and accepted it in silence, knowing it was all the apology he would receive.

With an effort Dumbledore straightened himself in his chair. "Well, really, this makes matters much more straightforward."*

Snape frowned, perplexed. Had the curse affected the old man's mind? Albus would be drained and weak, his stamina reduced, even with regular doses of elixir. And surely he did not think the Dark Lord could be defeated within the year?

Albus smiled again, clearly amused by his perplexity. A certain wry humor subtly colored the headmaster's response, as if he found Severus unusually slow on the uptake. "I refer to the plan Lord Voldemort is revolving around me. His plan to have the poor Malfoy boy murder me."*

Severus sat down heavily in the chair in front of the desk, facing Albus. Logically, he supposed, it _was_ rather obvious—at least once one allowed for the possibility of such a calamity. Which he hadn't. He still didn't want to, for that matter, though tonight's events transformed it from a possibility to an eventuality. Once again his rage at Albus' foolishness this evening boiled over, and he fought to master himself. He could do nothing to change what had happened tonight, and here, perhaps, was an opportunity to plead for Draco.

"The Dark Lord does not expect Draco to succeed. This is merely punishment for Lucius's recent failures. Slow torture for Draco's parents, while they watch him fail and pay the price."*

"In short, the boy has had a death sentence pronounced upon him as surely as I have"* responded Dumbledore, unfazed. "Now, I should have thought the natural successor to the job, once Draco fails, is yourself?"*

So Albus recognized the boy's plight, but had no plans to intervene. Draco might be an object of pity for the headmaster, but not a candidate for rescue or redemption. Silencing the voice in his head (which sounded suspiciously like Albus) observing that Draco seemed utterly uninterested in either rescue or redemption at present, Snape lifted his chin slightly and responded.

"That, I think, is the Dark Lord's plan."*

"Lord Voldemort foresees a moment in the near future when he will not need a spy at Hogwarts?"* Albus pressed him.

"He believes the school will soon be in his grasp, yes."* Trust Albus to have seen all the implications of the Dark Lord's change of target without having them spelled out.

"And if it does fall into his grasp, I have your word that you will do all in you power to protect the students of Hogwarts?"* Albus spoke casually, as if he weren't demanding a promise as all-encompassing as the one Severus had made on that wretched night all those years ago.

Snape gave a stiff nod.* It was a heavy promise, but no less than what he would have done anyway, and far less distasteful than many of the other things Albus had asked of him over the years.

"Good. Now then.* You will have two priorities. The first will be to support and protect your adopted children. You will be well placed to keep them safe and assist them with their role in the war—one of my original reasons for this arrangement, of course—but their cover will be more essential than ever, and you will need to keep Harry from doing anything rash, particularly after I'm gone."

Snape grunted in frustration. "Potter has gone from one appallingly rash escapade to another these past five years, and nothing I've said or done has curbed his foolish risk-taking. Besides, you know well that they only agreed to this arrangement out of trust in you—how can you think I will continue to have any influence over them from the moment you are gone?"

"You must gain their trust, of course." Dumbledore's voice was almost unbearably patient. "By the time I'm gone they must trust you as implicitly as they now trust me. But it was always imperative that you gain their trust for this arrangement to work. In that, this changes nothing, except perhaps your understanding." He did not add _and so much to the better_ , but Severus heard the words nonetheless.

"Now." Dumbledore continued, obviously wishing to forestall further objections. "Your second priority will be to discover what Draco is up to. A frightened teenage boy is a danger to others as well as to himself. Offer him help and guidance, he ought to accept, he likes you—"*

"—much less since his father has lost favor. Draco blames me, he thinks I have usurped Lucius's position."*

"All the same, try. I am concerned less for myself than for accidental victims of whatever schemes might occur to the boy. Ultimately, of course, there is only one thing to be done if we are to save him from Lord Voldemort's wrath."*

Snape raised his eyebrows and his tone was sardonic as he asked, "Are you intending to let him kill you?"*

"Certainly not. _You_ must kill me."*

Severus stared, face motionless but inwardly appalled. Albus was, if not a close friend, at least the closest thing he had to one at this point. To watch him deteriorate and die would be painful enough. But to kill him? If not for the intensity of self-loathing and guilt he had carried for so many years, he would not have been able to identify the awful heaviness churning in his gut. Unable to give voice to such feelings, he answered in the only way he knew how.

"Would you like me to do it now?" asked Snape, his voice heavy with irony. "Or would you like a few moments to compose an epitaph?"*

"Oh, not quite yet," said Dumbledore, smiling. "I daresay the moment will present itself in due course. Given what has happened tonight," he indicated his withered hand, "we can be sure that it will happen within a year."*

"If you don't mind dying," said Snape roughly, "why not let Draco do it?"* Let Draco do it, spare Severus this task, _please_. Not to mention the herculean feat of building enough trust with Potter and Granger to withstand his murdering the headmaster, piling impossibility on top of agony.

"That boy's soul is not yet so damaged," said Dumbledore. "I would not have it ripped apart on my account."*

"And my soul, Dumbledore? Mine?"* Was his soul so broken and irredeemable as to not be worth counting? Was the cost to him _never_ to be counted? Was Albus' regard for him still so little, even after so long?

"You alone know whether it will harm your soul to help an old man avoid pain and humiliation," said Dumbledore. "I ask this great favor of you, Severus, because death is coming for me as surely as the Chudley Cannons will finish bottom of this year's league. I confess I should prefer a quick, painless exit to the protracted and messy affair it will be if, for instance, Greyback is involved—I hear Voldemort has recruited him? Or dear Bellatrix, who likes to play with her food before she eats it."*

His tone was light,* even gentle to Severus' ears. As much an apology as a plea for mercy, his blue eyes piercing Snape's dark ones in unspoken appeal, as if both seeing his soul and willing him to understand. Severus felt something prickle behind his eyes, and gave another curt nod.*

Dumbledore seemed satisfied.*

"Thank you, Severus…"*

They sat looking at each other for several moments, neither wishing to speak further. Finally, Severus rose, circled the desk to where the headmaster sat, helped the older wizard to stand, and supported him across the office and upstairs to his bed.


	8. 7: Tears & Solemn Deceptions

A/N: Remember, Harry = Hadrian and Hermione = Helena

Apologies for taking so long to update. RL work has been extremely intense over the last 6 months or so, sucking up not just time but also creative energy. Thank you for staying with this story!

Most of the first (very long) scene in this chapter is taken from _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_ , chapter 2. These sections are marked with **. I promise this is the longest scene taken so directly from the books, as things will diverge much more sharply soon. I felt that the continuity of this piece of the plot was important for several reasons.

* * *

The following evening, Severus ensconced himself in the reading chair in his basement potions lab a little after 8 o'clock, happily settling into another potions' journal. He had been to Hogwarts earlier under the guise of an after-dinner walk—before which he had set Wormtail to washing the dishes and cleaning the kitchen, adding the rat's humiliation to the execution of his own plan. Albus was, if not well, as well as could be expected, and the potions he'd brewed that afternoon had been adequate even in Severus's own estimation.

He had been reading for perhaps an hour when he felt the wards around the property alert him to the presence of visitors. Sighing, Severus laid aside his journal and made his way upstairs just in time to hear knocking on the front door.

He opened the door a sliver, already with a good idea of who he would find on the other side. As expected, it was Narcissa. Bellatrix stood behind her, damn the woman.

Narcissa threw back her hood. She was so pale that she seemed to shine in the darkness; the long blonde hair streaming down her back gave her the look of a drowned person.**

"Narcissa!" said Snape, opening the door a little wider, so that the light fell upon her and her sister too. "What a pleasant surprise!"**

"Severus!" she said in a strained whisper. "May I speak to you? It's urgent."**

"But of course."** It was typical of the woman, he thought, to insist on whispering after presenting her bare—and easily identifiable—head to the entire street. Well, Severus had never met any member of the Black family with a shred of common sense, if it came to it.

He stood back to allow her to pass him into the house. Her still-hooded sister followed without invitation.**

"Snape," she said curtly as she passed him.**

"Bellatrix," he replied, his thin mouth curling into a slightly mocking smile as he closed the door with a snap behind them.**

Severus gestured Narcissa to the sofa. She threw off her cloak, cast it aside, and sat down, staring at her white and trembling hands clasped in her lap. Bellatrix lowered her hood more slowly. Dark as her sister was fair, with heavily lidded eyes and a strong jaw, she did not take her gaze from Snape as she moved to stand behind Narcissa.**

"So, what can I do for you?" Snape asked, settling himself in the armchair opposite the two sisters.** The sooner they got to the point, the sooner they would leave, and the fewer opportunities he would have to make mistakes.

"We… we are alone, aren't we?" Narcissa asked quietly.**

"Yes, of course. Well, Wormtail's here, but we're not counting vermin, are we?"**

He pointed his wand at the wall of books behind him and with a bang, a hidden door flew open, revealing a narrow staircase upon which a small man stood frozen.**

"As you have clearly realized, Wormtail, we have guests," said Snape lazily.**

The man crept, hunchbacked, down the last few steps and moved into the room. He had small, watery eyes, a pointed nose, and wore an unpleasant simper. His left hand was caressing his right, which looked as though it was encased in a bright silver glove.**

"Narcissa!" he said, in a squeaky voice. "And Bellatrix! How charming—"**

"Wormtail will get us drinks, if you'd like them," said Snape. "And then he will return to his bedroom."**

Wormtail winced as though Snape had thrown something at him.**

"I am not your servant!" he squeaked, avoiding Snape's eye.**

"Really? I was under the impression that the Dark Lord placed you here to assist me."**

"To assist, yes—but not to make you drinks and—and clean your house!"**

"I had no idea, Wormtail, that you were craving more dangerous assignments," said Snape silkily. "This can be easily arranged: I shall speak to the Dark Lord—"**

"I can speak to him myself if I want to!"**

"Of course you can," said Snape, sneering. "But in the meantime, bring us drinks. Some of the elf-made wine will do."**

Wormtail hesitated for a moment, looking as though he might argue, but then turned and headed through a second hidden door. They heard banging and a clinking of glasses. Within seconds he was back, bearing a dusty bottle and three glasses upon a tray. He dropped these on the rickety table and scurried from their presence, slamming the book-covered door behind him.**

Snape poured out three glasses of bloodred wine and handed two of them to the sisters. Narcissa murmured a word of thanks, whilst Bellatrix said nothing, but continued to glower at Snape. This did not seem to discompose him; on the contrary, he looked rather amused.**

"The Dark Lord," he said, raising his glass and draining it.** No other toast was conceivable in this company.

The sisters copied him. Snape refilled their glasses. As Narcissa took her second drink she said in a rush, "Severus, I'm sorry to come here like this, but I had to see you. I think you are the only one who can help me—"**

Snape held up a hand to stop her, then pointed his wand again at the concealed staircase door. There was a loud bang and a squeal, followed by the sound of Wormtail scurrying back up the stairs.**

"My apologies," said Snape. "He has lately taken to listening at doors, I don't know what he means by it… You were saying, Narcissa?"**

She took a great, shuddering breath and started again.**

"Severus, I know I ought not to be here, I have been told to say nothing to anyone, but—"**

"Then you ought to hold your tongue!" snarled Bellatrix. "Particularly in present company!"**

"'Present company'?" repeated Snape sardonically. "And what am I to understand by that, Bellatrix?"** Really, the woman was easier to bait than a Gryffindor.

"That I don't trust you, Snape, as you very well know!"**

Narcissa let out a noise that might have been a dry sob and covered her face with her hands. Snape set his glass down upon the table and sat back again, his hands upon the arms of his chair, smiling into Bellatrix's glowering face.**

"Narcissa, I think we ought to hear what Bellatrix is bursting to say; it will save tedious interruptions. Well, continue, Bellatrix," said Snape. "Why is it that you do not trust me?"**

"A hundred reasons!" she said loudly, striding out from behind the sofa to slam her glass upon the table. "Where to start! Where were you when the Dark Lord fell? Why did you never make any attempt to find him when he vanished? What have you been doing all these years that you've lived in Dumbledore's pocket? Why did you stop the Dark Lord from procuring the Sorcerer's Stone? Why did you not return at once when the Dark Lord was reborn? Where were you a few weeks ago when we battled to retrieve the prophecy for the Dark Lord? And why, Snape, is Harry Potter still alive, when you have had him at your mercy for five years?"**

She paused, her chest rising and falling rapidly, the color high in her cheeks. Behind her, Narcissa sat motionless, her face still hidden in her hands.**

Snape smiled.**

"Before I answer you—oh yes, Bellatrix, I am going to answer! You can carry my word back to the others who whisper behind my back, and carry false tales of my treachery to the Dark Lord! Before I answer you, I say, let me ask a question in turn. Do you really think that the Dark Lord has not asked each and every one of those questions? And do you really think that, had I not been able to give satisfactory answers, I would be sitting here talking to you?"**

She hesitated.**

"I know he believes you, but…"**

"You think he is mistaken? Or that I have somehow hoodwinked him? Fooled the Dark Lord, the greatest wizard, the most accomplished Legilimens the world has ever seen?"**

Bellatrix said nothing, but looked, for the first time, a little discomfited. Snape did not press the point. He picked up his drink again, sipped it, and continued, "You ask where I was when the Dark Lord fell. I was where he had ordered me to be, at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, because he wished me to spy upon Albus Dumbledore. You know, I presume, that it was on the Dark Lord's orders that I took up the post?"**

She nodded almost imperceptibly and then opened her mouth, but Snape forestalled her.**

"You ask why I did not attempt to find him when he vanished. For the same reason that Avery, Yaxley, the Carrows, Greyback, Lucius"—he inclined his head slightly to Narcissa—"and many others did not attempt to find him. I believed him finished. I am not proud of it, I was wrong, but there it is… If he had not forgiven we who lost faith at that time, he would have very few followers left."**

"He'd have me!" said Bellatrix passionately. "I, who spent many years in Azkaban for him!"**

"Yes, indeed, most admirable," said Snape in a bored voice. "Of course, you weren't a lot of use to him in prison, but the gesture was undoubtedly fine—"**

"Gesture!" she shrieked; in her fury she looked slightly mad. "While I endured the dementors, you remained at Hogwarts, comfortably playing Dumbledore's pet!"**

Snape continued responding, his voice calm and dispassionate. Always borrowing the mantle of the Dark Lord's judgement, continually needling Bellatrix with the inefficacy of her own choices. If he made his story more plausible by exaggerating the Dark Lord's powers and deprecating Dumbledore's, neither Bellatrix nor Narcissa was likely to fault him for it. It was easier, so much easier, to address Bellatrix directly like this. After all, he did not need to convince her, only sow enough doubts to silence her.

When he had finished, Bellatrix still looked unhappy, though she appeared unsure how to attack Snape next. Taking advantage of her silence, Snape turned to her sister.**

"Now… you came to ask me for help, Narcissa?"**

Narcissa looked up at him, her face eloquent with despair.**

"Yes, Severus. I—I think you are the only one who can help me, I have nowhere else to turn. Lucius is in jail and…"**

She closed her eyes and two tears seeped from beneath her eyelids.**

"The Dark Lord has forbidden me to speak of it," Narcissa continued, eyes still closed. "He wishes none to know of the plan. It is… very secret. But—"**

"If he has forbidden it, you ought not to speak," said Snape at once. "The Dark Lord's word is law."**

Narcissa gasped as though he had doused her with cold water. Bellatrix looked satisfied for the first time since she had entered the house.**

"There!" she said triumphantly to her sister. "Even Snape says so. You were told not to talk, so hold your silence!"**

But Snape had gotten to his feet and strode to the small window, peered through the curtains at the deserted street, then closed them again with a jerk.** These theatrics gave him time to plan his next words to best deflect Bellatrix. He turned around to face Narcissa, frowning.**

"It so happens that I know of the plan," he said in a low voice. "I am one of the few the Dark Lord has told. Nevertheless, had I not been in on the secret, Narcissa, you would have been guilty of a great treachery against the Dark Lord."**

"I thought you must know about it!" said Narcissa, breathing more freely. "He trusts you so, Severus…"**

Damn the woman. Those words were hardly calculated to soothe her sister's ire.

"You know about the plan?" said Bellatrix, her fleeting look of satisfaction replaced by a look of outrage. " _You_ know?"**

"Certainly," said Snape. "But what help do you require, Narcissa? If you are imagining I can persuade the Dark Lord to change his mind, I'm afraid there is no hope, none at all."**

"Severus," she whispered, tears sliding down her pale cheeks. "My son… my only son…"**

"Draco should be proud," said Bellatrix indifferently. "The Dark Lord is granting him a great honor. And I will say this for Draco: He isn't shrinking away from his duty, he seems glad of a chance to prove himself, excited at the prospect—"**

Narcissa began to cry in earnest, gazing beseechingly all the while at Snape.**

"That's because he is sixteen and has no idea what lies in store! Why, Severus? Why my son? It is too dangerous! This is vengeance for Lucius's mistake, I know it!"**

Snape said nothing. He looked away from the sight of her tears as though they were indecent, but he could not pretend not to hear her.**

"That's why he's chosen Draco, isn't it?" she persisted. "To punish Lucius?"**

"If Draco succeeds," said Snape, still looking away from her, "he will be honored above all others."** If Draco were more able, Severus himself might escape this task, and Naricssa would not be here weeping. Severus felt an irrational surge of anger towards the boy, well aware that it was unfair of him but unable to suppress his anger at being trapped.

"But he won't succeed!" sobbed Narcissa. "How can he, when the Dark Lord himself—?"**

Bellatrix gasped; Narcissa seemed to lose her nerve.**

"I only meant… that nobody has yet succeeded… Severus… please… You are, you have always been, Draco's favorite teacher… You are Lucius's old friend… I beg you… You are the Dark Lord's favorite, his most trusted advisor… Will you speak to him, persuade him—?"**

"The Dark Lord will not be persuaded, and I am not stupid enough to attempt it," said Snape flatly. "I cannot pretend that the Dark Lord is not angry with Lucius. Lucius was supposed to be in charge. He got himself captured, along with how many others, and failed to retrieve the prophecy into the bargain. Yes, the Dark Lord is angry, Narcissa, very angry indeed."**

"Then I am right, he has chosen Draco in revenge!" choked Narcissa. "He does not mean him to succeed, he wants him to be killed trying!"**

When Snape said nothing**—it was clear to him that explaining that the Dark Lord did not care whether Draco lived or died would not calm the boy's mother—Narcissa seemed to lose what little self-restraint she still possessed. Standing up, she staggered to Snape and seized the front of his robes. Her face close to his, her tears falling onto his chest, she gasped, "You could do it. _You_ could do it instead of Draco, Severus. You would succeed, of course you would, and he would reward you beyond all of us—"**

Snape caught hold of her wrists and removed her clutching hands. Looking down into her tearstained face, he said slowly, "He intends me to do it in the end, I think. But he is determined that Draco should try first. You see, in the unlikely event that Draco succeeds, I shall be able to remain at Hogwarts a little longer, fulfilling my useful role as a spy."**

"In other words, it doesn't matter to him if Draco is killed!"**

"The Dark Lord is very angry," repeated Snape quietly. "He failed to hear the prophecy. You know as well as I do, Narcissa, that he does not forgive easily."**

She crumpled, falling at his feet, sobbing and moaning on the floor.**

"My only son… my only son…"**

"You should be proud!" said Bellatrix ruthlessly. "If I had sons, I would be glad to give them up to the service of the Dark Lord!"**

Narcissa gave a little scream of despair and clutched at her long blonde hair. Snape stooped, seized her by the arms, lifted her up, and steered her back onto the sofa. He then poured her more wine and forced the glass into her hand,** wishing he could discreetly dose her with a calming potion instead.

"Narcissa, that's enough. Drink this. Listen to me."**

She quieted a little; slopping wine down herself, she took a shaky sip.**

"It might be possible… for me to help Draco."** Dumbledore had already ordered him to do so, after all, and the Dark Lord would not object so long as he maintained the appearance of subtlety.

She sat up, her face paper-white, her eyes huge.**

"Severus—oh, Severus—you would help him? Would you look after him, see he comes to no harm?"**

"I can try."** It seemed his fate to spend his life watching over boys too ignorant and reckless to protect themselves.

She flung away her glass; it skidded across the table as she slid off the sofa into a kneeling position at Snape's feet, seized his hand in both of hers, and pressed her lips to it.**

"If you are there to protect him… Severus, will you swear it? Will you make the Unbreakable Vow?"**

"The Unbreakable Vow?"**

Snape's expression was blank, unreadable.** Inside his mind was racing, and he felt bile rise in his throat. He kept his eyes on Narcissa so as not to betray his thoughts. A less disciplined man would have allowed his gaze to flick over to Bellatrix, however momentarily. This was her game, her move on the chessboard, for all it came from Narcissa's mouth.

The danger was in the wording of the vow—the specifics. In its most stable form, an unbreakable vow had three parts. What might he be asked to swear, and how damaging could it be?

Bellatrix let out a cackle of triumphant laughter.**

"Aren't you listening, Narcissa? Oh, he'll _try_ , I'm sure… The usual empty words, the usual slithering out of action… oh, on the Dark Lord's orders, of course!"**

Snape did not look at Bellatrix. His black eyes were fixed upon Narcissa's tear-filled blue ones as she continued to clutch his hand.**

Well, what did he have to lose? To refuse would be too suspicious. At worst the Vow would kill him. A small price, since it would be quick enough to seal his secrets away with him—lower stakes than his usual form of roulette at the Dark Lord's side, really. Besides, Narcissa's focus was so single-mindedly on Draco that her demands were likely to be fairly narrow. So. Best to maneuver Bellatrix into the role of Bonder, thus ensuring that Narcissa spoke the Vow.

"Certainly, Narcissa, I shall make the Unbreakable Vow," he said quietly. "Perhaps your sister will consent to be our Bonder."**

Bellatrix's mouth fell open. Snape lowered himself so that he was kneeling opposite Narcissa. Beneath Bellatrix's astonished gaze, the grasped right hands.**

"You will need your wand, Bellatrix," said Snape coldly.**

She drew it, still looking astonished.** Whether because he had agreed or because he had outmaneuvered her, he couldn't begin to guess.

"And you will need to move a little closer," he said.**

"She stepped forward so that she stood over them, and placed the tip of her wand on their linked hands.**

Narcissa spoke.**

"Will you, Severus, watch over my son, Draco, as he attempts to fulfill the Dark Lord's wishes?"**

"I will," said Snape.** It was a little open ended, but not inherently dangerous.

A thin tongue of brilliant flame issued from the wand and wound its way around their hands like a red-hot wire.**

"And will you, to the best of your ability, protect him from harm?"**

"I will," said Snape.**

A second tongue of flame shot from the wand and interlinked with the first, making a fine, glowing chain.

"And, should it prove necessary… if it seems Draco will fail…" whispered Narcissa (Snape's hand twitched within hers, but he did not draw away), "will you carry out the deed that the Dark Lord has ordered Draco to perform?"**

There was a moment's silence.** Severus hardly dared breathe for fear that the triumph and relief pounding inside him might shine through. Silently, he mastered himself before responding.

Bellatrix watched, her wand upon their clasped hands, her eyes wide.**

"I will," said Snape.**

Bellatrix's astounded face glowed red in the blaze of a third tongue of flame, which shot from the wand, twisted with the others, and bound itself thickly around their clasped hands, like a rope, like a firey snake.**

After the sisters had left and the heady rush of victory and survival receded, Severus felt an icy knot settle in his stomach in response to what he had just Vowed to do. Grimly, he reminded himself that Albus would be delighted.

# # #

Once his body was physically recovered from the adoption ritual, Hadrian started sleeping badly. He fell asleep each evening, but woke early in the dark morning hours, troubled by unremembered but uneasy dreams and unable to go back to sleep. On a bad night he woke at 3 or even earlier, and on a good night he woke at 5, but most mornings he woke around 4 AM.

The first night, he lay motionless in bed, terrified of waking Helena. He couldn't help suspecting that she would want him to talk about it, and embark on an endless quest to understand _why_ he couldn't sleep. Since he emphatically did not want to discuss it, he was determined that she wouldn't know. Nor did he want to burden Madam O'Malley, who had already been so kind and done so much.

But Helena was a sound sleeper, as he quickly discovered. Hadrian soon developed the habit of moving over to the rocking chair when he woke in the night. He would stare out at the stars, and then watch as the world greyed into dawn. He was often tired and wished that he _would_ sleep properly, but there was something peaceful about those hours, too. Sometimes he thought about Sirius, or Cedric, or his parents. Always he wondered whether things might have been different, if only—but if only what, he was never sure.

Despite his difficulties sleeping and the constant state of weariness that settled on him as a result, Hadrian admitted to himself that it was the best start to the summer that he'd ever had. The grueling physical chores he had always done for the Dursleys had similarly exhausted him, so he was accustomed to being tired during summer holidays.

Hadrian loved the cottage as a home—like Hogwarts, but more personal—especially the kitchen, and especially the meals they shared there. He loved it so much that he wondered whether he was being disloyal to the Weasleys and the Burrow. However much he might love the bustle and chaos of the Burrow, and however welcome he might feel there (at least as Harry), the O'Malley cottage near Cork was _his_ in a way the Burrow had never been. In the cottage, he did not feel like a guest.

Making breakfast in the morning made Hadrian feel like the kitchen belonged to him, at least a little, and he loved the structure of the days. Even the hours spent studying weren't so bad, since he shared them with Helena (not that he had any intention of admitting as much). Their rambling explorations of the countryside were wholly outside his previous experience, but he quickly grew to love them almost as much as he loved flying. The same went for the after-dinner conversations.

He could tell that the hours they spent together after dinner seemed entirely natural and ordinary to Helena and their mam. Privately he wondered whether his parents had spent such evenings together when he was a baby, simply sitting and talking through the evening after they had finished washing up. The Dursleys had always been too absorbed in the telly to talk to each other much, and certainly never engaged in the sort of wide-ranging intellectual debates that seemed so natural to the rest of his new family, and of course he had never been included in Dursley family activities when they could help it. Hadrian treasured those hours, especially the stories his mam told, even as they often confused him.

As the weeks wore on he wondered, tentatively, whether this was what it felt like to have a family of his own.

#

On their second Saturday in Cork, Tonks showed up at the door with two vials of de-aging potion, an old camera, and some timeless children's clothes. Hadrian and Helena spent the afternoon as six year olds, gleefully playing with Tonks, who used her metamorphmagus skills to appear as a younger version of Madam O'Malley, while the real Madam O'Malley snapped "childhood" photos of them.

But when the potions wore off that evening, the children understood both why such potions were used so rarely—apart from the expense of the ingredients, which Helena knew to be considerable—and why the adults had insisted that they be up in their room before the effects ended: they spent the next two days lying in bed, dizzy and aching all over, barely able to move. On the second day, when they finally had enough energy to talk, they agreed fervently that they would be happy to never take that potion again.

#

The following weekend Madam O'Malley took them to the magical district of Cork, located at Fae Court. In the morning they shopped, first getting dragon-hide boots for both children, then informal outer robes—which were very like the outer robes of their Hogwarts uniforms, but without school insignias, and they got one set each in navy and grey, rather than black—before heading to the bookstore. Here Madam O'Malley told them that they could pick out one book each and to be ready in half an hour before turning decisively towards the display of recent arrivals.

Hadrian went directly to the Quidditch section, where he quickly picked a book about the Irish national team that had won the previous year's World Cup as the book Snape was most likely to let him keep. He then settled in with a history of the Chudley Cannons, knowing he still had at least 20 minutes left—and very likely more, knowing Helena as he did.

Helena wandered through the more academic sections of the bookstore, considering the possibilities as she casually browsed, before stopping at the section on warding. She found the new subject fascinating, and was particularly interested in learning how it could be refined and strengthened using Arithmancy, based on her Mam's comments. Helena pulled several likely-looking possibilities off the shelf and knelt on the floor with them, losing all track of time as she engrossed herself in the serious business of deciding which book she wanted.

When Madam O'Malley found her 45 minutes later (Helena was not the only one susceptible to losing track of time in bookstores), Helena was sitting with seven possible choices spread out in front of her, with a dozen discarded possibilities piled off to the side. When she saw the subject material, Madam O'Malley knelt on the floor beside Helena. Three books were eliminated because Madam O'Malley already owned them, a fourth forbidden because the author was sloppy in his notation, and a fifth disqualified for being too theoretical to have any practical applications.

Gathering the final two choices and adding them to her own pile of three books, Madam O'Malley stood up. "I think we've kept your brother waiting long enough."

Helena's hesitated a moment, then grinned as she understood. "Thank you," she said quietly, enveloping the older woman in a hug.

Her adoptive mother smiled at her conspiratorially before asking, "Where is your brother, do you know?"

"Have you checked the Quidditch section?" asked Helena, thinking with a pang of guilt that she probably should have made him choose something else, for the sake of verisimilitude.

By the time they found Hadrian in the Quidditch section, he had gotten through nearly five chapters of the history of the Chudley Cannons. Looking at his watch, he realized he'd been reading for almost an hour. At least he had plenty to write to Ron about now—the Cannons were always a safe choice, and he knew he couldn't write anything about his life in Ireland. Shrugging, Hadrian put the book he'd been reading aside and held out the book about the Irish national team. He noted that Helena looked relieved and Madam O'Malley looked amused at his choice, which he figured boded well for Snape letting him keep it.

After lunch Madam O'Malley took them to the Healer to have their teeth straightened. Their mouths were quite sore for several hours, even with pain-relieving potions, but it was worth it. Even Hadrian was happily surprised to see how much better (and less Snape-like) he looked with straight teeth, and Helena was clearly thrilled.

That night after supper, Hadrian wrote to Ron while Madam O'Malley gave Helena a first formal lesson on the uses of Arithmancy in warding. Using the enchanted quill from Dumbledore, it was almost strange to see his old writing, and he grimaced slightly as he realized how much neater his writing had become as Hadrian. He wrote only a short paragraph about himself, saying that he was fine (true), but missed Sirius (also true), and that being so confined was difficult (laughably inaccurate when he thought about the day's trip into Cork and all the afternoons he'd spent flying or rambling over the countryside, but _Harry_ wasn't getting to do any of those things, so he figured he should pretend). He then continued for two pages about Quidditch, happy to discuss details of the Cannons team of 1937 with someone who would care, and then finished with a barrage of questions about summer at the Burrow, the twins' joke shop, and Ron and Ginny's summer. It was a much easier letter to write given his reading at the bookstore, and Hadrian put the unsealed letter aside for Madam O'Malley to pass on to Dumbledore with a light heart.

#

When Hadrian and Helena returned home from their afternoon ramble on Monday, having visited a meadow dotted with blooming furze that Hadrian was particularly fond of, Madam O'Malley awaited them with mail.

Hadrian had letters from Ron, Ginny, Neville, and, amusingly, Hermione, all over a week old. Neville had written soon after school ended, mostly about the plants he was growing in the greenhouse at home, but clearly concerned about Harry's wellbeing. Ron and Ginny had sent their letters together, the week before last. Ron's letter was short, mostly about Quidditch, with a bit of moaning about de-gnoming the garden the day before he'd written. Ginny's letter was only slightly longer, and mostly about the twins' progress on their joke shop and products. Hermione's letter had obviously been written weeks before, and was all about their summer homework, which simultaneously amused him and made him roll his eyes. A bit ridiculous, really, when she had been at his side and ensuring that he studied every day for weeks.

Still, it cheered him immensely to read all the letters and hear from his other friends, even if they were all short. Even the familiar handwriting of Hermione's letter stirred feelings of fondness. He missed Ron, Ginny, and Neville. It was nice to know that they were thinking of him.

Rather than letters, Helena had received a series of newspaper clippings. The first came from a Muggle newspaper, and was dated July 9.

 _ **Oxfordshire Girl Dies Heroically Saving Younger Girls from Bus**_

 _Sixteen year-old Headington resident Hermione Granger was pronounced dead Monday afternoon only minutes after being hit by a bus near a play area on Quarry Road. Amanda and Alison Alderbrook, ages 5 and 7, had been playing in the street near the park and did not notice the approaching bus. Granger, who was passing by, saw their danger and pushed the two younger children to safety, but was unable to escape the bus's path herself. The bus driver, who has been placed on administrative leave, says he did not see either of the younger girls in the street._

 _Mrs. Susan Alderbrook, the younger girls' mother, tearfully explained to reporters and medical personnel that she had been occupied with her 2-year-old son on the other side of the play park. She praised Granger's selfless bravery, thanking her for saving her daughters' lives._

 _Granger, an only child, attended a small independent school in Scotland. She is survived by her parents, Drs. Margaret and Matthew Granger, who did not respond to a request for comment._

 _Funeral services for Hermione Granger will be held at St. Andrew's Church in Old Headington at 2 PM on Friday, July 12._

The other two articles were clearly from the _Daily Prophet_. The first contained much the same information as the Muggle paper, mingled with the added information that she had recently completed her 5th year at Hogwarts, had been a Gryffindor prefect, and was well known as a close friend of Harry Potter's.

The second article from the _Daily Prophet_ was about the funeral, and a large photo showed the magical attendees. The entire Weasley family (save Percy) stood in the front row, with Ron leaning heavily on Mrs. Weasley and Ginny sandwiched between the twins. In the row behind them were Neville and his grandmother, Luna, a man who Helena supposed must be Luna's father, and, somewhat surprisingly, Susan Bones and her parents. The third row held Hogwarts professors: McGonagall, Vector, Flitwick, Burbage, Sprout, and even Sinistra. Behind them she could see glimpses of Tonks, Lupin, the Creevy brothers with a man who must be their father, and even Lavender, Parvati, and Padma. Everyone in the photo was crying, and Helena felt her chest clench as she examined it.

She felt awful, seeing how much pain they were all feeling as a result of her choices. It hit her then that she was lying—not just to her parents and extended family, but to each and every person in that photo (except Tonks). It wasn't a small lie, either, but something terrible, perhaps unforgiveable. As the reality of it hit her, she wondered why Dumbledore had thought it worthwhile to allow her the choice she had made. What gain could possibly be worth so much sorrow? A tear dripped off of her chin and Helena realized that she was crying too.


	9. 8: Goodbyes

A/N: Remember, Harry = Hadrian and Hermione = Helena

Thank you for continuing to read this story, despite my slowness in updating. Reviews are always welcome. Also, I apologize for the brevity of this chapter, especially after so long a wait. It made more sense in terms of the story to cut it off where I did.

* * *

As July wore to a close it became clear that Madam O'Malley's health was deteriorating rapidly. Healers began to visit the cottage regularly, faces grim.

On the 31st, Madam O'Malley baked and frosted a small cake for after dinner, saying with a small smile that she had simply felt inspired to make it. Hadrian was delighted and touched. It was more of a birthday celebration than the Dursleys had ever given him, and far more than he had expected given that the day could not be openly acknowledged. The children had gone flying that afternoon, and Helena was _finally_ competent enough on a broom to throw a Quaffle around while they flew without dropping it constantly. The cake, in Hadrian's opinion, was the capstone on a perfect day.

His delight dimmed at lunchtime the next day, when Madam O'Malley did not join them, instead remaining in bed. He heard a visiting healer mutter something about overexertion, and he felt overcome by guilt.

#

At Madam O'Malley's urging and to the healer's clear relief, the children reluctantly departed as usual on their afternoon excursion. It was a walking day, since they had flown the day before. Without discussion, they silently headed into the hills and towards the furze-dotted valley that was Hadrian's favorite spot.

Hadrian's disquiet was obvious to his sister. About five minutes after they reached the valley she began pestering him to talk to her about his feelings. Ruefully, he reflected that he was more surprised that she had waited so long than at anything else.

"I guess I feel like it's my fault she's so bad today," he confessed. "She went to all that effort for me yesterday, with the—baking—and all, and today she's stuck in bed."

Helena stopped and turned to face him, sad if not really surprised. "It's not your fault. Look, she chose to do all that last night. She enjoyed it. She enjoyed how much you enjoyed it. It's not your fault that she's sick. She's been sick for a long time."

"I know that. I just—well, I guess it was easier to ignore, before. To pretend like she was well. And…"

"And?" she prompted him.

"Well, I guess it seems like horrible things keep happening to people who try to do nice things for me. Cedric wanted to share the cup with me, and he died for it. Sirius tried to protect me, and he died too. And now… Mam's done so much for us, and yesterday… That was the second birthday cake I've ever had, and the first I've ever gotten to share." Two dark spots of color appeared on his cheeks at this admission.

Helena hugged him tight, then pulled away and grasped his shoulders.

"None of that was your fault. _None_ of it. You didn't kill any of them. Cedric and Sirius died because of Vol—Voldemort, not because of you.

"Mam was already dying. Long before yesterday, before any of this. Dying from an incurable magical disease—what she has, it's like cancer in her magic—not really, but close enough—and they didn't catch it until it had spread out of control—well, it's not like dying from a Muggle illness. With potions—and charms too, but mostly potions—they can keep people feeling well, keep the symptoms at bay, until the last week or two. Witches and wizards almost never _seem_ sick when they're dangerously ill, from what I've read, unless they're really old, or if they have a really spectacularly disgusting illness like dragon pox. It's the less-serious diseases that keep wizards in bed. Usually when they're really sick, they get to keep living normally almost until the time they die.

"She's going to die soon, no matter what, and she knows it. She's known all along. And she chose to have us—to have you—in her life and in her house," Helena continued fiercely. "She chose to teach us, and to tell us stories in the evenings. And to buy us books, and cook dinner, and all the other things she's done for us. She baked that cake because she chose to: it was how she wanted to spend her time."

Wordlessly, Hadrian pulled Helena in for another hug, grasping her tightly. He didn't know what to say. In his memory, no other adult had ever cared for him in such a way. Not just for him. He was used to teachers caring because he was a student, and to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley being kind because he was Ron's friend. This was different in a way that was important, but that he couldn't quite articulate. Sirius had come close, perhaps, but he had been more of a companion, almost an older brother. And anyway, Sirius was gone.

If the tears seeping down Hadrian's face dripped onto the back of Helena's neck, she didn't mention it.

#

The children began taking turns sitting with Madam O'Malley around the clock, except for the short hour each day when the healers shooed them both out of the room. Hadrian took over all of the cooking, while Helena did all the washing up and the laundry.

Helena took bedside duty each morning, resumed it again from tea time through dinner, and sat up the first half of the night. At first Hadrian was horrified that she still managed to study for at least two hours each afternoon, but he slowly realized that she found it comforting to escape into her books. Hadrian took bedside duty each afternoon, after dinner each evening, and the second half of each night.

This vigil was tiring, both physically and emotionally, but neither child complained. After all, no one had asked them to do it, though Madam O'Malley seemed to appreciate their presence. It was something they asked of themselves.

#

One morning several days into their vigil—he wasn't quite sure how many, they had blurred together so completely—Hadrian was sitting downstairs in the library while Helena sat upstairs with Madam O'Malley. Nominally he was reading about Irish magical history—he _knew_ he would not be able to absorb ancient runes at the moment—but between his exhaustion and his anxiety he had read perhaps two pages in the past hour.

Hadrian was staring at the book, wondering if attempting to read was worth the effort, when he was surprised to hear a knock on the front door. The healers always came and went by the Floo, so often that he hardly noticed anymore. Frowning, Hadrian replaced his bookmark, set the book on the table, and went to get the door.

It was Snape.

Hadrian stared stupidly, surprised. He had known in an abstract way that they would have to meet Snape sometime before school started, but he had not expected the man _here_ , much less today.

The man stared down at him, examining the boy as if he were a potions ingredient.

"You must be Hadrian," he stated, entirely without inflection.

"I—yes, Sir." Hadrian stuttered back.

"My name is Severus Snape. I am here to see your mother."

"Er, she's not—that is, she's in her room. She's really sick. I don't think she could get out of bed, even if the healers allowed it."

"Please take me to her." Snape's tone was not warm, precisely. Hadrian could hear impatience and frustration, both familiar in Snape, but his voice strangely lacking in venom, at least to Hadrian's ears.

The boy gulped, nodded, and ushered the man into the house and led him up the stairs to Madam O'Malley's room. At the door, Snape turned to him and pointed back towards the stairs.

"Your presence is not required. Go."

Hadrian was momentarily torn between wanting to stay with Madam O'Malley and the desire to escape from Snape, but a glance at the man's frown was enough to send him scampering downstairs.

Upon his return to the library, Hadrian did not retrieve his book, but merely flopped into an armchair with a good view of the front hall.

Helena joined him soon after. "He said he wanted to speak with her alone," she explained in response to his unspoken question.

"Mhhm."

"Did he just show up?" she asked him

"Pretty much, as far as I could tell. There was a knock at the door, and when I answered it there he was. Gave me a right shock, I tell you."

Helena made a gurgling sound that was not quite a giggle. "You should have seen my face when he opened Mam's bedroom door."

Hadrian smirked, imagining.

"Mam didn't seem surprised, though. Smiled at him, even."

"Huh."

"Perhaps she was expecting him."

"Don't you think she would have told us, though?" he questioned.

"Maybe, but I'm not sure." Helena's voice was thoughtful, soft.

"Why not?"

"Well, it would have meant admitting some unpleasant realities, or at least made it harder to avoid them. She hasn't been keen to discuss it, has she?"

"Discuss what?"

"You know."

"Huh?"

"The—well—it's all pretty imminent now, isn't it?" Helena was clearly uncomfortable, not wanting to say out loud that Madam O'Malley must be about to die fairly soon.

"It—oh." Suddenly Hadrian understood. He shivered, though it was not cold.

Helena grimaced in response, and they sat in silence for some minutes.

#

By the time Snape returned downstairs, the children were sitting down to lunch. He stood in the doorway, observing them before he spoke.

"Your mother's health is deteriorating rapidly. As she is no longer able to care for you, you will come to live with me now."

"But we can't just leave her!" Hadrian burst out. "After everything she's done for us… We owe it to her. Can't we stay?"

Helena did not speak, but her face pleaded, echoing her brother's sentiments.

Snape frowned. "I will speak with her about it, on the condition that you agree to abide by her choice, without complaint and without badgering. It is her wishes that matter in this, not yours."

Neither Hadrian nor Helena heard anything of Snape's conversation with Madam O'Malley, but the adults must have spoken. They stayed.

# # #

Two mornings later, Severus was asleep, curled uncomfortably on the small sofa downstairs, when he was shaken awake by a healer. The hour and the expression on her face in the pre-dawn light told him everything.

"How long?" he asked, his voice husky with sleep.

"An hour, perhaps," came the steady response. "Perhaps as much as two, at the most." A moment's hesitation, then, "She's not in pain. But tired, and her awareness of the world around her will quickly slip away. Not yet, but soon."

Snape rose without responding and preceded the healer upstairs. Frowning, he paused at the top of the stairs and turned back. "The children?"

"We sent them to bed hours ago. It wasn't healthy, the way they kept hovering all night. So we told them they couldn't stay overnight any more, maybe three nights back."

Snape nodded, then turned to enter Maureen's room.

She was awake, and smiled kindly at him as the healers in the room cast monitoring charms and filed out. By the time he sat in the chair next to her bed, they were alone.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered.

"For what?" she asked, smiling lightly.

"That you didn't get another century. That you'll be tied to me now, in the eyes of the world. That you've spent these last months saddled with two teenagers and Albus' ridiculous machinations."

"No." She shook her head, bemused. "No, I don't accept those apologies. The only apology you owe me is for not visiting or answering my letters for so many years after I moved here."

Two bright spots of color appeared on his sallow cheeks. "I'm sorry for that, too."

"You should be. For that, I mean. But not the rest." She grabbed his hand. "Listen, Severus. It's not your fault that I won't get more time. I've had so much more than most of my family or friends, I don't want to be ungrateful. I have the chance to say goodbyes. Maureen never got that chance. Neither did Lily, or my parents, or my brothers. To have that, that's something.

"Also, those children are the furthest thing from a burden I can imagine. Really, Severus." He grimaced in disbelief, but she continued.

"I mean it. I've felt more happiness these last months, with them, than in all the decade that came before it. They're sweet children—stop looking so disbelieving, they are. Helena is a pleasure to converse with. I don't wonder that she has Marlene's wand, now that I know her. She has the same sort of mind, and she might be even sharper. And Hadrian… he's an incredibly generous child, but also needs so badly to be loved.

"Please thank Albus for bringing them to me. Yes, I mean it, Severus. Thank him. Or at least convey _my_ thanks."

"I will, if you really mean it."

"I do." Her eyes blazed with conviction.

"And will you… will you tell Lily I'm sorry?" He tried to keep the pleading out of his voice as he made his one request of her.

Her eyes softened. "I will, though I'm sure she already knows. May I ask something in return?"

He nodded, surprised to find his eyes damp. He would give a great deal in return for that apology, so very many years overdue.

"Look after those children. Both of them." He opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off. "Not just what you must do—whatever you've promised Albus, whatever is strategically necessary. I know you've already promised that. I'm asking you to do more. To care for them, beyond what is _necessary_." She said the word with scorn, dismissively. "Really care for them. If not for their own sake, for mine. And for Lily's."

He nodded shakily. "It is not in my nature, and I don't _like_ either of them. But I will try."

She looked at him piercingly, and he felt the weight of her exasperation and disappointment, tempered by a sort of sympathy he couldn't quite name. It made him feel ashamed and yet cared for, all at once. Finally, she nodded. "I suppose that is the most you can promise. But do try, and keep thinking about it. I hope you surprise yourself."

There was nothing he could say to that. They sat in silence for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts.

After a few minutes Severus cleared his throat and rose. "I will wake the children and bring them to say their goodbyes."

#

Snape walked past the healers in the hall and knocked softly on the children's door before opening it without waiting for a response.

Only one of the two beds was occupied. Glancing to his right, Snape saw the boy silhouetted in the grey light coming through the window. Hadrian was seated in a rocking chair, his dark eyes open.

Crossing to the occupied bed, Severus pulled back the covers and shook the occupant's shoulder, more gently than he might have. Groggily, the girl sat up, still dazed by sleep.

"Your mother does not have long," he informed them tersely. "It is time to say your goodbyes."

Hadrian's eyes flickered to Helena, clearly fighting her way to consciousness from a deep sleep. "I'll go first," he volunteered.

Snape nodded and followed him out of the room, pausing just long enough to be sure that the girl was indeed getting out of bed. He did not follow the boy into Maureen's room, but instead stood outside the door and cast a covert listening spell. The healers frowned at him but did not comment.

"I wanted to say thank you," Hadrian began, his voice both awkward and strained to Snape's ears. "I know it hasn't been that long, but you're the only mum I can really remember. Aunt Petunia certainly doesn't count. And, well. You were great."

Maureen's voice was warm and reassuring. "Having you for a son has been a great joy, however briefly. I am so very glad I've gotten to know you."

"I used to wonder what it would be like. Having a real parent, I mean. Someone who really cared." The boy's voice was thick with emotion. "I know it wasn't long, but I won't ever forget. I want you to know that. To know how much it's mattered, to me. No matter what happens later.

"I can't remember my real mum and dad, but I'll remember you. How kind you are, how you cooked for us and told us stories and took us shopping for new clothes. I'll always remember, I promise."

Maureen's response was muffled, as if she was speaking into the boy's hair or shirt. "I want you to remember that this summer meant as much to me as it did to you. Never doubt that."

#

When Hadrian left Maureen's room he didn't even look at Snape, just walked straight past him into his own room. Helena emerged moments later, glancing at Snape as she went to speak with her adoptive mother.

Again Snape cast a covert listening spell. The girl's voice was also strained, but somehow more contained than the boy's had been.

"I wanted to thank you," the girl began, "for agreeing to take me as well. It's meant to much to me, both getting to be here with Ha—Hadrian and getting to know you.

"I've wondered for years what it would be like to have a magical family. Being able to ask questions about the magical world, being told things I never would have thought to ask. And also… well, being able to speak freely.

"I love my original parents very much, but they're Muggles, and they just don't understand. I've never told them about most of what happened at Hogwarts, because I knew they'd be frightened and make me leave, and I couldn't bear that. So I didn't tell them much, and that was hard too. It got harder and harder for me to spend time with them. I guess we grew apart."

Snape smirked at the girl's naïveté in thinking that wizarding parents would have been less horrified by her participation in Potter's exploits over the years. The girl's words displayed an innate trust in adults which was utterly foreign to him.

"You've been… It's been wonderful, having an adult I could talk to more. Thank you for sharing all the stories about your family, and starting to teach me warding, and everything else."

"You are very welcome, Helena. It has been as much a pleasure for me as for you, I promise." Maureen's voice was as warm and tender as it had been when she spoke to Hadrian, but without the underlying notes of concern.

"Getting to know you this summer has been a great gift for me, Helena. One I had no idea I wanted, but no less treasured for that. I am so glad you have Marlene's wand, and I'm quite certain she would approve. Use it well, and take care of Hadrian. I think you were right about his needing you."

Their voices stopped, replaced by sounds of sniffling and the rustling of blankets. Severus cancelled the spell, uncomfortable with so much maudlin sentimentality.

# # #

When Helena opened the door several minutes later, the healers bustled back into the room immediately, followed more slowly by Hadrian and Snape. The three of them sat quietly around the bed as the room filled with bright morning light. Perhaps 30 minutes later it was over, and both children found themselves staring over the quiescent form of Madam O'Malley in the bed, their eyes fixed apprehensively on Snape.


	10. 9: Spinner's End

A/N: Once again I thank all of you for your patience as I write this story. It's hard for me to find consistent time to write given the other demands on my life (and that's not going to change, unfortunately), but I will keep writing at whatever pace I can manage as long as people keep reading. As always, reviews are very welcome.

Remember, Harry = Hadrian and Hermione = Helena

* * *

Severus sat at the kitchen table at Spinner's End, draft syllabi for all seven years of defense classes spread out before him at the table. The children were downstairs in the basement, brewing the potions he had assigned them, and the house was quiet, even peaceful.

He reflected with mild surprise that the children had been much less obnoxious than he had feared. So far, at least.

They had surprised him first with their lack of snide comments about the house, the neighborhood, or the tiny bedroom they now shared. True, the girl's face had looked pained when he first showed them the bedroom, but that was no more than he had expected, and as she had been wise enough not to speak he had said nothing. He had been more surprised that the boy made no comments, since the girl had the better-developed sense of self-preservation, at least when it didn't come to showing off her knowledge.

The children had been here with him at Spinner's End for a week now, and so far they had not caused him undue irritation. By unspoken agreement, all three acted as if they were at school. They ate their meals together in the kitchen, but without speaking much, and the children washed up afterwards without complaining. He spoke to them only as needed, and so far the household had been quiet.

It was rather like being at Hogwarts during term time, he admitted to himself. He had given the children assignments and a schedule, in order to structure their days and keep them from irritating him. In the mornings they worked on the summer homework for the incoming fourth years, since they would be joining that class, and which they were required to complete to his specifications. On top of that he had given them potions assignments, hoping that even a minimal amount of extra teaching would make them more believable… or at least keep the boy from embarrassing him. In the afternoons the children continued their potions work, with oversight when he thought it necessary, often brewing in the basement lab. Only the children's evenings were free, and they spent those quietly in their room, much to everyone's apparent relief.

Severus smirked to himself in satisfaction as he contemplated the children's potions assignments. He had come up with a strategy to force the boy to actually learn on his own and to force the girl to stop parroting her textbooks, much to his own satisfaction. He had set them both to work on potions from the fourth-year curriculum that were relatively safe to brew and required minimal supervision time from him, but there the similarity ended. The boy was required merely to brew the potions and explain common mistakes and their likely results: very like the assignments given in class, except Severus hoped that by returning to more elementary material and without distractions—or undue help from the know-it-all—the boy might actually absorb some of the nuances this time around.

He required the girl to alter the potions, each time specifying a change in the potion's effect and expecting her to work out how the brewing process must be changed in order to create the desired alteration. It was finicky work, quite advanced (though he wasn't about to concede that), requiring a deep and nuanced understanding of the material. These assignments were demanding enough to stop her from spending too much time doing the boy's work for him, and different enough that he wouldn't be able to copy much of use from her work (even if he understood it, which Severus privately doubted). Best of all, the answers to the girl's assignments were nowhere to be found in any of her textbooks.

If it were possible, Severus would have been content to continue the current routine through the end of the summer. He had no idea how to go about forming a warmer relationship with the children, much less building the closeness and trust Albus had asked of him, damn the man. He had been pleasantly surprised to find he could tolerate them in their current form, but his feelings certainly did not go beyond that. Their current truce appeared stable, and he had no wish to interfere with its delicate balance. Besides, he could easily have spent five months designing courses for all six years of defense classes, rather than a few weeks of work crammed between other obligations. Even more than usual, Severus resented all distractions.

However, some deviation from their current routine was unfortunately necessary. The children needed books, uniforms, and supplies for Hogwarts, and Narcissa had invited him to bring the children to Malfoy Manor for dinner on Friday, damn her. It was not an invitation he could refuse, but given Draco's newfound grudge against him and his own children's strong dislike of the boy—and likely all things Malfoy—it bore every hallmark of a disaster in the making.

The twins' supposed birthday was on Wednesday, and Severus decided to take them to Diagon Alley to buy their school things then. It was as good a day as any for shopping, and they would need formal robes for dinner at Malfoy Manor. He could even take them for dessert in honor of the supposed occasion, for the sake of verisimilitude. It would please Albus, if not himself.

#

Helena was horrified by Professor Snape's rules for her coursework: no assignment was to include any discussion beyond the narrow scope of the assignment—no illuminating historical footnotes, no clever applications, no theoretical implications—and no assignment was ever to be more than 1" beyond the required length. Expansion charms were explicitly prohibited, as was shrinking her handwriting. Snape had given her these rules for her summer homework, but he'd been clear that they would apply for as long as her disguise was in place. Helena was appalled. She had been resigned to going back two years in the curriculum, but had originally consoled herself with the thought that she would surely discover new nuances in the familiar material, much as she had while studying for OWLs in the previous year. The thought of repeating 4th year coursework without the chance to explore new insights in her work made her utterly miserable.

Worse, Hadrian was totally unsympathetic, and had even laughed at her anguish. It was easy enough for him—he was only required to write an outline in advance for each essay—like she'd been attempting to convince him to do for the past five years!—and had to show it to Professor Snape for approval. Snape had also said that during the school year Hadrian would have to turn in his outline for each essay a full four days before it was due, to discourage him from procrastinating, but again that was hardly a burden… even if Hadrian seemed to think it was.

Helena's main consolation was the potions work she did in the afternoons. Learning to modify potions was fascinating, and she was learning by leaps and bounds. She hoped they would continue potions tutoring during the school year—though she had not dared voice that thought aloud, for fear that Hadrian would laugh at her or Snape would withhold the tutoring out of spite. At least that way she would be able to make progress in one subject, even if it wasn't her favorite. She thought there was a reasonably good chance their lessons would continue, since they were probably getting them to help reinforce their roles. Not that Snape had said as much, of course.

She missed Madam O'Malley, and especially her lessons and discussions about warding and Arithmancy. Helena could tell that Hadrian was also sad, and that he seemed subdued, but for once she was too caught up in her own worries to watch him closely. The routine of study and potions brewing at Spinner's End offered regularity and the chance to escape from her feelings, and she clung to it accordingly.

#

Hadrian was considerably less comfortable than Helena with the routine of life at Snape's. He did not enjoy the constant schedule of studying as Helena did—though he admitted (grudgingly) that he was learning a great deal, especially about potions. Helena refused to help him during their afternoon study sessions—she said she couldn't focus properly on her own assignments and help him—but he was learning a surprising amount on his own, and had taken to writing down questions when he was really stuck. Helena happily answered those questions when they retreated to their room after dinner each evening, and in combination with his own efforts each afternoon he was learning much more about potions than he ever had before.

But he was not happy. Rather, Hadrian was exhausted. His insomnia from earlier in the summer had never really disappeared, and it gripped him more tightly in the dreary surroundings of Spinner's End and Snape's forbidding presence. Luckily Helena continued to sleep soundly, and for once was not badgering him about his exhaustion. But he still feared waking Snape, and so spent long hours each night lying in bed, staring at the narrow window and small scraps of moonlight that filtered through it.

Hadrian missed Madam O'Malley and the house in Ireland constantly, and he particularly felt the lack of time spent outdoors, in a way Helena did not. He had used to joke with Ron that Hermione would never have left the castle if they did not drag her out of doors with them, and it had recently occurred to him that this had been far closer to the truth than he had imagined. Hadrian was very glad that they had not spent the entire summer at Spinner's End, not least because the many hours indoors had begun chafing by the third day.

Hadrian was particularly excited that evening when Snape announced over dinner that they would be going to Diagon Alley on Wednesday afternoon. He could tell that Helena was also pleased, but he didn't think anything could match the sense of relief he felt at the prospect of leaving the house. She was probably excited about getting their textbooks, he though wryly. For himself, he didn't care so much about getting their school things, though he knew he needed them. Hadrian was more excited about the chance to spend some time outside. Besides, he'd always been fond of Diagon Alley.

# # #

On Wednesday morning the children came down to breakfast slightly earlier than usual, even knowing that they would not leave for Diagon Alley until after lunch. They were surprised to see a parcel at each of their places, and stopped just inside the doorway.

Snape bent his head, indicating the parcels. "It is customary to give children gifts on their birthday," he commented.

Helena smiled and reached for her parcel, while Hadrian gaped. After so many years with the Dursleys, it was incredible to think that Snape of all people would give him a gift when it wasn't even his real birthday. Besides, Madam O'Malley had given him a cake this year for his real birthday in July and Helena had been there to share it, making it the best birthday he could remember.

After a few moments Hadrian shook himself and reached for his parcel, finding that it contained two familiar books: _Hogwarts, A History_ and _Quidditch Through the Ages_. Glancing over, he saw that Helena had received the same two books and was beaming at the new copy of her favorite.

Snape cleared his throat. "The headmaster and I felt that it would be prudent to give you these to help explain knowledge you wouldn't otherwise have, though you should still take every precaution to avoid slipping. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir." Helena chirped happily. Hadrian echoed her, feeling strangely relieved. Snape's presents weren't really gifts, then, and the world hadn't turned quite so far sideways as it had appeared for a moment there. Still, it was nice to get his own copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_.

#

Over lunch Snape reminded the children repeatedly that this was supposedly their first trip to Diagon Alley, and not to act like they remembered anything or make comparisons to previous visits. Helena nodded and looked thoughtful, but Hadrian was frustrated by the warnings. Even a simple trip to Diagon Alley seemed to become bloody complicated when Snape was involved, didn't it? Why couldn't he just enjoy the afternoon for what it was? Hadrian nodded anyway, if only to get Snape to stop talking and let him focus on his lunch.

Snape brought them to Diagon Alley after lunch using side-along apparation, as his house was not connected to the floo network. Both children hated the sensation, though Hadrian reflected that it was better than the Knight Bus, if only because it was over faster.

# # #

Diagon Alley was a shock to both children. Where it had once been noisy, bustling with witches and wizards as they met and shopped and gossiped and lingered, it was now nearly empty. People now traveled in twos and threes, moving quickly and constantly glancing over their shoulders. Many shop windows were boarded up, and even those stores that remained open were no longer welcoming.

Snape walked between the children with one hand resting on each of their shoulders. The physical closeness surprised both children, and neither was entirely comfortable with it, but while the children exchanged startled glances they said nothing. The Alley was so eerie that Snape seemed _almost_ comfortable and familiar in comparison.

When they passed Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor—or rather, the building where it had once been—Hadrian spoke. "When did—" Snape's grip on his shoulder tightened painfully. "Er, has it always been like this?"

"No." Snape's response was soft, and characteristically lacking in any discernible emotion. "It has only been like this for the last month or so."

They continued in silence to the apothecary, where Snape bought a number of things for himself in addition to buying their potions' kits for Hogwarts. Next they bought school trunks, cauldrons, and telescopes, all of which Snape shrank and tucked into his robes.

Madam Malkin's shop was the first time anyone said much to them. The saleswitch was surprised that they needed Hogwarts robes for new students, without House crests, and said as much. Snape frowned and responded tersely, and the woman took the hint and stopped asking questions. Hadrian grinned at Helena, reflecting that Snape was much more pleasant when his ire wasn't directed at them.

Snape also insisted on getting them each three full sets of robes that weren't for school: one set of charcoal grey robes for everyday wear; a dressier set in dove grey linen that the witch said were for informal affairs; and formal dress robes, which were made of satin and velvet. Or at least, the saleswitch said they would be; the formal robes were made to order and would be sent to them by owl.

Madam O'Malley had bought them some outer robes for everyday wear when she took them shopping at Fae Court back in July, but those were much like their school robes, and worn over ordinary clothing. In fact, the children were wearing them now, over ordinary muggle clothes, also purchased in Cork with Madam O'Malley.

The new robes Snape was getting them were complete outfits. Helena's each consisted of a floor-length gown—there really wasn't any other word for it—with tight sleeves and a matching over-robe. Hadrian's robes were more complicated: each set included trousers and a waistcoat to match his over-robe, and a high-collared white shirt to wear under them. The lighter grey set even included a tie, and he suspected the formal robes would as well. It was all rather much in Hadrian's opinion. But at least Snape hadn't made him get the _traditional_ wizard's robes, which were practically dresses like Helena's. Hadrian glanced at the offending garments and shuddered, not noticing the way Snape quirked his lips in response.

Flourish & Blott's was emptier than usual, like all the other stores, but the quiet there was less disturbing. Snape handed the children their book lists with a firm admonition not to dawdle—clearly aimed at Helena—and then went to browse the new arrivals section while the children retrieved their school books.

Hadrian soon found himself armed with a new set of very familiar books, including _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade Four)_ , _Intermediate Transfiguration_ , and _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_. He also found himself in possession of his very own _Rune Dictionary_ and a new book that appeared to be for Defense Against the Dark Arts. _Evading the Ruthless_ looked rather interesting, and hugely better than that Slinkhard trash they'd been assigned by Umbridge last year.

As they walked over to Snape, Helena thumbed through the new defense book.

"Looks promising, doesn't it?" commented Hadrian.

"Quite," said Helena, grinning at him. From the look in her eyes, Hadrian knew she'd read as much as she could that very evening. He smiled back, knowing what they were both thinking but couldn't say: the quality of the defense books usually matched the quality of the teachers, and this book boded well.

With the purchase of their textbooks, they had bought all of the items on their school lists. Snape surprised the children by leading them further up the street towards Gringotts rather than back towards the Leaky Cauldron.

When they reached Ollivander's shop and saw it boarded up and empty, both children slowed. Snape gripped their shoulders tightly and steered them forward, warning them not to comment. Luckily, Hadrian was so stunned that he didn't have the words to say anything he shouldn't, though the stunned looks on his and Helena's faces were surely inappropriate for their roles.

Hadrian was further stunned when Snape steered them into a fancy shop called Cardamom & Coriander, Fine Chocolatiers. When Snape led them up to the counter and asked them what they wanted, Hadrian stared at him, totally shocked.

"Was I incorrect in thinking that you would enjoy a birthday treat?" Snape asked.

"No, Sir," Hadrian replied, still stunned. This had to be one of the strangest days of his life.

After some discussion, Hadrian and Helena both ordered chocolate éclairs, while Snape ordered a slice of bittersweet chocolate cake. Snape also ordered pumpkin juice for both of the children, and tea for himself, before leading them to a small marble table in a corner away from the windows. They had their pick of the tables, for the rest were all empty, though a steady stream of witches and wizards ordered chocolates and pastries at the counter.

When the food and drinks came, they ate slowly and in silence. They'd had so many quiet meals by now, it seemed almost ordinary, and Hadrian got the impression that everyone wanted to savor their desserts.

Hadrian was still stunned by Snape's generosity. He'd been able to explain away the books at breakfast—they were to help them play their roles, so they weren't really gifts, not properly. Or at least he'd been able to convince himself of that this morning. But this? Well, it was hard to convince himself that a chocolate éclair was part of any plan to hoodwink Voldemort and the Death Eaters. Try as he might, Hadrian couldn't see any ulterior motive for coming here and buying them treats. It was a birthday present. From Snape. As he savored the cream filling of his éclair, Hadrian struggled to wrap his head around the idea.

Unfortunately, sitting quietly made it increasingly difficult for Hadrian to ignore his need for the loo. He looked around the shop but didn't see a door. He squirmed in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable position, while wondering whether it was worth it to ask Snape.

Seeing the child fidgeting—really, he was far too old for such things—cause Snape to end Hadrian's dilemma. "Do you need anything?" he asked pointedly.

"Er, the loo?" Hadrian asked in response, turning bright red. The Dursleys would have murdered him for this, and he didn't want to discuss anything even vaguely relating to bodily functions with Snape.

"Well ask at the counter then," Snape responded, obviously impatient.

The wizard at the counter told Hadrian that the nearest loo was at the toy shop next door, and Snape waved him towards the door.

Still red, Hadrian exited the chocolate shop and went into the toy shop next door. He tried not to be distracted by the piles of wizarding toys as he walked through the aisles to the back of the store, but couldn't help feeling a pang of jealousy. He'd had so very few toys at the Dursleys—just a few of Dudley's cast-offs that had been small enough to sneak from the rubbish bin, really—and so many of these were brilliant. There were stuffed dragons that rustled their wings and breathed out puffs of warm air, and model castles with working drawbridges, all of them beautifully made. It was hard not to imagine a childhood playing with such toys, in a house where he was loved enough to have them.

Perhaps these reflections explained why Hadrian's first reaction was envy rather than disgust when he entered the bathroom.

A small boy, no more than three or four years old, stood in the open area in front of the sinks, tears flowing freely down his round brown cheeks. The front of the boy's clothes were covered with vomit, and there was a puddle of it on the floor in front of him. A man knelt in front of the boy, so alike he had to be the child's father, seemingly oblivious to the vomit he knelt in and which liberally decorated the front of his own robes. The man rubbed the boy's back with one dark hand while he felt his forehead with the other, murmuring soft words of comfort to his son.

As he skirted past the mess to get to the stalls, Hadrian felt himself overcome with envy rather than disgust. _No one_ , he thought, _has ever loved me like that. Maybe my parents did once, but never since they died. I wish I could have that kind of love,_ he thought.


	11. 10: Malfoy Manor

A/N: Here's the next installment, which is a little longer than the last two (though you may hate me for where it ends). Thank you as always for your patience with the long gaps between updates. I can't promise to write faster-I have too many competing obligations in my life-but I can promise to keep writing. Reviews are always welcome, and provide excellent motivation.

As usual, Harry = Hadrian and Hermione = Helena

Reminder: Not my sandbox, I just play here.

* * *

Over breakfast the next morning, Snape informed the children of their upcoming engagement at Malfoy Manor.

"Narcissa Malfoy has invited all three of us to dinner at Malfoy Manor tomorrow night. You will both be going—I don't want to hear any excuses or arguments, is that clear?"

Both children nodded, though Hadrian looked mutinous—a look which was by no means lost on Snape, who continued speaking.

"You will be gracious and polite. You will not remark on Lucius's absence or draw attention to it in any way. Narcissa will be kind to you. Try to return that kindness."

Snape paused and frowned at them before continuing. "It is likely that Draco will be unkind to you, since he is currently rather displeased with me. Do _not_ antagonize him, whatever he says or does. Remember that you supposedly have no history with him. You may respond with confusion, hurt, or indifference as you see fit, but _do not react in anger_.

"In all likelihood, he will view you as younger children and beneath his notice. Do nothing that might interfere with this conception, lest he transfer his current antipathy for me to you. Have I made myself clear?"

Helena nodded first, murmuring "Yes, Sir" and looking thoughtful. She wondered what was going on between Draco and Snape, never having noticed even a hint of conflict between them before. But she thought better than to ask, realizing that she and Hadrian would play their roles better not knowing—and that Snape would never give them information if withholding it would help them play their part.

Hadrian said nothing, opting instead to stab viciously at his sausage and glare down at his toast. Snape frowned at him, and Helena realized how very alike they looked in their frustration with each other. She fought back the urge to giggle at the situation, but couldn't help smiling slightly at the sight. Predictably, both of them transferred their glares to her, clearly outraged at her levity, causing her to dissolve into laughter. Her sense of self-preservation was sufficient that Helena did not attempt to explain the cause of her laughter, but rather finished her last piece of toast as quickly as possible and then escaped from the table.

#

As Helena left, Severus frowned after her in irritation before turning back to Hadrian.

"I know you are not fond of Draco, but self-restraint is necessary. I am not asking you to befriend him—" Snape sneered at this notion and Hadrian sighed slightly, clearly relieved. "However, he holds a powerful position in the social world you now inhabit, and it would be most unwise to antagonize him. Not only would it make your life unnecessarily difficult, but it would garner attention and foster speculation of a nature that would be detrimental to your role. This is a matter of your safety… and, I might point out, your sister's, since you appear to possess a modicum of sense when it comes to protecting others, and none at all when it comes to protecting yourself."

Two bright spots of color appeared on the boy's cheeks at that, but he said nothing, instead staring down at his plate.

"I will _not_ have you endangering yourself—or the rest of us, boy. And that means I expect you to be polite to Draco Malfoy. I assure you, I will make your life significantly less pleasant if you do not. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Hadrian muttered his response sulkily, barely loud enough to be heard. The boy's cheeks were still flushed, and he looked mortified.

Good. "Very well then." Snape nodded and stood up, carrying his empty plate to the sink before leaving the washing up to the boy still sitting at the table.

# # #

That night Hadrian slept fitfully as usual, troubled by unpleasant dreams. For once he slept until dawn, though as always he woke well before Helena. He woke with his stomach fluttering, much as it did before a Quidditch match. Well, facing Malfoy on the Quidditch pitch would be vastly preferable to facing him over a formal dinner, so perhaps it wasn't so surprising.

He didn't speak much to Helena as the morning went on, but both had been lost in their thoughts since their discussion after breakfast the previous morning. When he had joined her over their books after Snape's lecture and humiliating reminder of his past mistakes, Hadrian had asked his sister what she had found so funny.

Instead of answering him, Helena had asked him, quite seriously, if he really wanted to know.

Given the distinct feeling that she had been laughing at him as well as at Snape, Hadrian had decided he didn't want to know, and said as much. The awkwardness had lasted only a few minutes, but he had found himself thinking about how much less they seemed to share as Hadrian and Helena than they had as Harry and Hermione, especially in the oppressive atmosphere of Snape's house.

At first Helena's relative reticence had been a relief, especially given Hermione's usual badgering to talk about his feelings. He had wanted the space, even craved it. And then… well, it was hard to know what to say about Madam O'Malley's decline and death, or about living with Snape. Hadrian was certainly too overwhelmed by it all to have words, and it occurred to him yesterday that Helena might be finding it overwhelming in her own way. Well, her reaction at breakfast had seemed a lot like nervous laughter to him—really, what on Earth could she find _funny_ about the prospect of dinner with Malfoy?—and it would explain a lot about her recent behavior.

Caught up in these ruminations, Hadrian was still unusually quiet by lunch that afternoon. He forced himself to eat heartily, hoping it would settle his stomach. Neither Snape nor Helena remarked on his ongoing silence, so the meal was even quieter than usual. Well, Snape seemed to prefer silence as a natural state, and here was more evidence—at least in Hadrian's mind—that Helena was also struggling with their situation.

By early afternoon Hadrian sorely regretted his hearty lunch, as his stomach had moved from fluttering to churning to roiling in short order. But Snape had scheduled a short afternoon of studying and no brewing, so that they could prepare for the evening.

The middle of the afternoon found Hadrian slipping off to the toilet and revisiting his lunch. No one noticed, and he was glad to keep it that way. He felt a bit better afterwards, which was a relief.

It didn't occur to Hadrian to tell anyone that he was sick. He knew Helena would fuss and hover if she knew, and he didn't want to deal with that. The Dursleys had never cared if he was ill, and he didn't think Snape would be any different. Besides, the man had clearly told him not to make excuses to get out of dinner at the Malfoys. He had been taught to view illness as an excuse from a very young age.

So he took a shower, washed his hair, and then brushed his teeth extra carefully before heading back to his bedroom to dress.

#

Helena, for her part, had simply assumed that Hadrian was brooding over the prospect of a formal dinner with Malfoy. Sensing that Hadrian didn't want to talk—she was trying to be better about giving him space, having noticed that he didn't get irritated with her nearly so often when she didn't press him—Helena had taken the opportunity to subsume herself more completely in her studies.

Limiting her summer assignments to fit Snape's specifications had been a painful exercise, but the silver lining was that (after three rounds of criticism and deletions on her transfiguration essay) she had finished all of her assignments rather quickly, and received approval of them from Snape. Hadrian still hadn't finished his assignments—and didn't appear to realize that she had finished hers—but she was happy to use the extra time to study both warding and potions.

Warding was fascinating, and she felt a deep sense of gratitude to Madame O'Malley for introducing her to the subject. When she stopped studying, the sight of her books on the subject made Helena sad, reminding her that the source of such generosity and kindness was gone. But when she studied warding, she felt closer to Madame O'Malley, remembering her comments, insights, and enthusiasm for the subject. It hurt, but it was also a source of comfort.

Helena didn't think she would ever love potions in the way she loved transfiguration, arithmancy, and charms, but Professor Snape's summer assignments were giving her a new appreciation for the subject. The modification exercises he set her had forced her to revisit her knowledge of potions in a new light, and she was pleasantly surprised by the quality of insights she was gaining. She was beginning to see subtleties in potions much like those which she saw so naturally in her three favorite subjects, though she had to work much harder to see them.

Academic pursuits had always been an escape for Helena, from a very young age. Books and intellectual puzzles had provided a respite from a singularly lonely childhood, providing a sense of accomplishment and the chance to get away from her feelings. She was conscious of grieving, both for her old self and for Madam O'Malley, but the routine of studying helped steady her, giving her hours each day in which she forgot her sense of grief.

Hadrian's quiet over the past two days had registered on her consciousness first and foremost as a chance to escape more completely into intellectual pursuits. Undisturbed by questions or complaints, she had found her work the past two days unusually relaxing, offsetting the trepidation she felt about that night's formal dinner.

She was not terribly worried about Malfoy or his mother, per se. After all, she had put up with the boy for years, and Helena Snape had two magical parents, so they would undoubtedly be more pleasant than she was accustomed to.

Rather, Helena was worried that she would embarrass herself by demonstrating her ignorance of pureblood social etiquette. Intellectually, she knew her ignorance would not be suspect, since Madam O'Malley had lived so retired and been so uninvested in pureblood customs. But after years of success at showing herself superior to Malfoy in the classroom, she found she was nervous about the prospect of embarrassing herself in front of him. She did not like the idea of his winning in any respect, even if he did not realize he was competing against her.

She did not discuss her anxieties with Hadrian, knowing that he would either laugh at her or feel even more nervous, since he knew even less about pureblood etiquette than she did. Instead she smiled at him as he entered their room smelling of toothpaste and obviously fresh from the shower.

After taking a quick shower and brushing her teeth—thank goodness Snape hadn't thought to forbid her from looking after her teeth properly!—Helena used a surreptitious charm to pull her hair into a French braid, grateful for the advantages of living in a magical household.

She pulled the dove grey linen gown over muggle undergarments, impressed by how well it fit her. The dress was deceptively simple, with a conservative scoop neck, tight-fitting sleeves ending two inches short of her wrists, and French darts at the waist. While not particularly voluminous, the skirt fanned out from a low waist, falling in folds that would drape beautifully when she sat. Over the gown went the overrobe, made of the same dove grey linen fabric, with wider, shorter sleeves and an open front, falling to the middle of her calves.

She did not have a full-length mirror, but she felt beautiful in the robes. Or at least stately, which was probably the best she could hope to achieve.

From her reading, Helena knew that the shorter outer robe marked these robes as less formal; with formal dress robes, the outer robe would also fall to her ankles, like the gown beneath it. The shorter sleeves on the outer robe did not reflect formality, but instead indicated that the robes were intended for summer. She had read up on dress robes before buying her gown for the Yule Ball, and was grateful for the knowledge, as it told her something of what to expect from the evening.

Having donned her outer robe, Helena frowned as she considered her choices of shoes. None of them were really right for these robes, but Snape hadn't considered footwear and she hadn't thought of it either. After some thought, she put on her black leather Mary Janes and charmed them to appear white. They still weren't quite right, but they would be largely hidden under her robes, so they should pass casual inspection. She hoped.

The bottom layer of Hadrian's outfit looked a lot like a formal muggle outfit from the turn of the century. He wore a white dress shirt with a high collar, with a vest, jacket, and slacks made of the same dove grey linen of her dress robes. The set had come with a silk tie in the same pale grey, though the shirt was still informal enough to have buttons on the cuffs. Helena wondered what Hadrian's reaction would be when he realized that true formal robes required cufflinks. Curiously, Hadrian's outer robe was very similar to hers in cut and length, except that his sleeves were slightly longer.

Helena noticed with some irritation that her brother's black leather loafers were perfectly adequate to his ensemble. Well, that explained why Professor Snape hadn't thought to get her dress shoes. Bother.

Hadrian looked unusually pale, his freckles standing out much in the way Ron's did when he was particularly nervous. Helena eyed him with some concern. "I'm sure it won't be _that_ bad," she coaxed him. Smiling mischievously, she continued. "We may even get the chance to hear Malfoy insult Professor Snape."

Hadrian smiled wanly at that. "Well, that's something to hope for." He paused, clearly uncomfortable, before continuing. "Er, I suppose we ought to head downstairs. Bad enough without him getting hacked off because we're late."

# # #

Under Professor Snape's power, the group arrived in the Apparation Foyer at Malfoy Manor. The room's floor was polished marble, and it was completely empty except for a massive magical painting on the wall opposite the door.

The painting showed an ornate pleasure garden with white albino peacocks strutting down the various lanes and paths. An enormous manor house was visible in the distance. The garden looked quite lovely, in Helena's opinion, but the peacocks rendered the painting ridiculous rather than beautiful. She suspected the absurdity of the painting was rather lost on the Malfoys, but cut her thoughts short at Snape's preemptory summons and followed the irritable man through the door.

Helena registered a brief impression of a marble entryway, sweeping staircase, and massive chandelier before her attention was captured by Madame Malfoy, who stood waiting for them.

Narcissa Malfoy wore icy blue robes made of watered silk. Her ears and neck glittered with pearls and aquamarines, setting off the effect of her elegant coiffure. She was as distant and refined as she had appeared when Helena had seen her at the World Cup two years before, but she greeted them with a graciousness utterly at odds with her behavior then.

"Severus!" Her voice was soft and melodious, effortlessly patrician. "How delightful of you to come, to be sure. And these must be your children?"

"Indeed." Professor Snape inclined his head in a slight bow before gesturing the children forward. "Narcissa, Hadrian and Helena. Children, this is Madame Malfoy."

Helena curtsied slightly, since that seemed to be the thing to do, while Hadrian stood dumbly before belatedly nodding his head.

"Charming," proclaimed Madame Malfoy. She examined them closely, but spoke with a distinct lack of emotion. "The resemblance is quite remarkable, Severus."

Professor Snape murmured something unintelligible while Helena struggled not to grimace and avoided looking at Hadrian.

Madame Malfoy smiled gently at the children, though Helena could not help noticing that the smile did not reach her eyes. "My son Draco is waiting in the small parlor. You must come meet him."

#

The small parlor was decorated entirely in muted blues, purples, and greys, creating the perfect backdrop for Narcissa's robes.

Draco unfolded himself from an armchair and lazily stood as they entered, nodding gracefully to his mother and ignoring Professor Snape completely. His dress robes were very like Hadrian's, except that they were navy blue rather than pale grey.

"Draco, my darling," fluted his mother, "Come meet Severus's children, Hadrian and Helena."

Draco nodded coldly to Hadrian before turning to Helena.

In the space of an instant Helena discovered a hitherto unsuspected advantage of being Hermione Granger, muggleborn witch: Draco Malfoy had never looked at Hermione Granger with the appraising eye he was now casting over Helena Snape. Over the years plenty of other Slytherins had looked at her like she was a piece of meat on display at a butcher's shop, but Draco was far too much a pureblood snob to even look at a muggleborn in a sexual way.

She suppressed a shudder as his eyes raked up and down her body and he sneered. Ugh! No wonder Ginny hated Malfoy so much, despite not having to put up with him in classes. And no wonder Ginny had never explained—Ron would go ballistic if he knew!

Hoping that her distaste was not apparent on her face, Helena selected a seat as far away from Draco as politeness allowed and settled in to listen to the conversation between Narcissa Malfoy and Professor Snape.

For once even Helena found the adults' conversation painfully boring. While Professor Snape and Madame Malfoy discussed the state of Madame Malfoy's garden, she worked to keep a look of polite interest on her face. Both Hadrian and Draco's expressions betrayed undisguised boredom, which Narcissa politely ignored while Snape frowned periodically in Hadrian's direction.

Eventually the adults' conversation turned to the children and their upcoming school year, and they attempted to draw the younger generation into the conversation. Narcissa asked what year they would be in, what electives they would be taking, and which courses they found most interesting.

Hadrian left Helena and Professor Snape to answer these questions for him: his sole contribution to the conversation was to ask directions to the toilet and excuse himself. Helena understood his desire to hide from such an awkward and formal setting, but thought it childish of him to indulge in it.

Hors d'oeuvres were served in the parlor not long after Hadrian's return from the toilet. Helena was delighted to see that they were beginning with oysters on the half shell, and began to hope that the quality of the food might compensate for the wretched conversation.

Then she caught sight of Hadrian's face, which showed mingled horror and revulsion. Helena realized suddenly that while she might love oysters, she had grown up with parents who took her to fancy restaurants, and on holiday to seafood-specializing regions all over Europe, giving her plenty of opportunities to develop her palate. She suspected that Hadrian had never tasted an oyster in his life, and it was clear that he was revolted by the prospect.

Well, she couldn't very well pretend _she_ 'd never tasted them, not when she knew exactly how much lemon she liked to squeeze onto them. And oh, how she wanted them. How to explain without seeming suspicious?

An idea came to her, and Helena exclaimed over the oysters as she went to serve herself. "I'm afraid you won't get Hadrian to eat any of the oysters—he had a rather nasty experience with them a few years back. But I love them!"

Hadrian shot her a look of pure gratitude, his face relaxing, while Madame Malfoy made a conciliating remark towards the boy and even Professor Snape shot Helena a look that might have been considered approving.

Dinner was served on the terrace in the fading light of the late summer evening. Helena realized that the painting in the Apparation foyer depicted the ornamental garden beyond the terrace. She wondered briefly whether the albino peacocks were real or a fanciful artistic addition. Her question was soon answered, for an albino peacock came strutting into view. She looked down at her place setting in an effort not to laugh at the pretentious absurdity of the peacocks, knowing she would lose it if she looked either at Draco or back at the peacocks in the garden. Somehow, the ridiculous birds reminded her of the boy.

When she was certain she had mastered herself, she looked up and focused her eyes on the adults as they spoke. Snape glared at her, clearly sending a silent reminder that she was to behave herself appropriately.

The conversation remained agonizingly boring. The adults avoided all discussion of politics, Lucius's absence, or Madame O'Malley's death—in short, any topic with any substance which Helena might have found interesting or meaningful—and Draco replied tersely or sneeringly to all of Professor Snape's attempts at conversation.

Helena had expected to feel mild amusement at hearing Malfoy insult Snape. Instead she found herself simmering with resentment as Snape remained impassive while Draco treated him with a deliberate rudeness that would have been met with a severe tongue-lashing and likely months of punishment had it come from herself, Hadrian, or any of her other peers. If anything, she was shocked at how angry she felt at the pair of them.

She considered engaging more actively in the conversation herself, just to escape from Draco's snide remarks and Snape's calm and impassive responses. But she found herself reluctant to speak for fear of either making a social faux-pas or exposing their charade in some accidental way. So she sat quietly and tried to focus on the meal, which was in fact delicious.

The first course served at the table was a light summer soup with a base of roasted and pureed tomatoes. It was delicious, and garnished with basil so fresh she suspected (correctly) that it had been picked just before the meal.

Madame Malfoy had assured them that their meal would be just a light supper, which Helena quickly realized meant it would only be five courses, rather than the seven or eight which would be expected for a truly formal meal. Hadrian seemed to have caught on, for he ate lightly at the soup course.

The main course was grilled fish, filleted and served in a lemon vinaigrette with summer peas. Light and sweet, the fish was even more exquisite than the soup. Feeling herself on safe ground, Helena murmured polite expressions of delight over the fish, earning her first genuine smile from Madame Malfoy, a sullen glare from Draco, and an approving nod from Professor Snape.

Hadrian ate only a few bites of the fish before quietly excusing himself from the table and disappearing into the house. Helena found this puzzling, but said nothing. She was painfully conscious of Professor Snape's rising irritation, and felt a pressing urge to avoid drawing any further attention to the source of his ire. Besides, the fish was outstanding and deserved her full attention.

Hadrian returned to the table in time to have another few bites of fish before it was removed and replaced with the salad course.

The salad was also exquisite: mushrooms and endives in a tarragon mustard sauce with shallots, delicate and refreshing as all the previous courses.

Unfortunately, the other aspects of the meal only became more agonizing. Snape was now shooting withering glares at Hadrian while continuing to ignore Draco's flagrant rudeness. Somehow that made everything worse, and Helena felt herself fighting the urge to cry. Hadrian showed relatively little appetite for the salad, despite having eaten so little of the fish. But Helena could hardly blame him, given the weight of the glares Snape was sending in his direction. She thought she would lose her appetite too, if she were on the receiving end of those looks.

Narcissa Malfoy floated above it all, politely oblivious to all of the tension around the table. She made light conversation with Snape, clearly attempting to soothe him, at least half in apology for her son's behavior. Snape ignored these attempts as completely as he ignored her son's alternating nasty remarks and stony silences.

It was getting dark by the time dessert was finally served. Candles came to life all over the table and terrace, creating an effect as beautiful and magical as the floating candles in the Great Hall at Hogwarts. Helena would have loved it if she had not felt so tense and miserable.

Dessert was berry tart, juicy and sweet. Helena ate hers greedily, glad she had paced herself through the previous courses. She was certainly full, but still able to enjoy the treat. The excellence of the meal from start to finish was a consolation for the otherwise miserable nature of the evening.

She looked over at Hadrian, intending to share a smile over the dessert. Helena felt the first prickles of real concern when she noticed that he had barely touched his tart.

After sharing meals with him for six years, she knew his eating habits. Unlike Ron, Hadrian was not a bottomless pit, and did not always eat big meals, particularly when he was feeling stressed or upset. But Hadrian _loved_ dessert. Treacle tart was his favorite, but in six years she had never seen him turn down dessert, not even the pink heart-shaped biscuits that had been served one year on Valentine's Day. Ordinarily, Hadrian would have eaten every crumb of the berry tart on his plate. Seeing him eat only a few bites and push the remainder around his plate suddenly convinced Helena that something was seriously wrong.

#

Hadrian was miserable.

He had thrown up twice now, three times if he counted earlier in the afternoon, though thankfully each time he'd felt it coming on with enough warning to be discreet about it. Each time he had felt slightly better for a little while, but as the evening wore on he felt worse and worse—much worse than he had in the afternoon. The meal was pure torture.

He had no energy to even think about Malfoy, much less pay attention to the conversation. All of his attention was focused on controlling his roiling stomach while he prayed for the meal to end.

He had been relieved when Helena had given him the excuse to avoid the oysters, as he was very sure he would not have managed to swallow even one of the slimy, unappetizing things without sicking up then and there, in front of everyone.

But his relief had been short-lived. The soup had tasted just like the acid that kept burning its way up his throat. The fish—well, better to not even _think_ about the fish. The salad, with its creamy dressing, had been hard to distinguish from the chunks of vomit he had repeatedly swallowed down out of sheer willpower. And the tart—well, any other evening he would have eaten every morsel, but tonight it had taken everything he had to swallow three bites.

Worse, Snape had been glaring at him murderously for the past half hour, clearly furious over the time he had spent in away from the table. At least the Dursleys had never made him sit through a meal when he felt like this—not that he could remember feeling this bad more than once or twice before.

 _Finally_ the interminable meal was over. Hadrian barely processed the goodbyes, standing stiffly and moving gingerly while trying to appear as normal as possible. From the concerned look Helena gave him, he could tell she had noticed that something was amiss, but no one else seemed to be paying him close attention.

The hallway passed by in a blur, and finally they were back in the Apparation Foyer, and Snape was taking their arms, glaring furiously all the while.

With a wrenching pop, the three of them apparated back to the sitting room at Spinner's End. Hadrian screwed his eyes and mouth shut, attempting to hold himself together.

When he opened his eyes, Snape was looming over him.

"What in Merlin's name were you thinking, boy? I told you to be polite—polite!—and avoid antagonizing Draco. Your little disappearing act was exceptionally rude, I don't know what I'm going to tell—"

Despite his best efforts to hold everything in, Hadrian lost control of his stomach. He vomited spectacularly, all over the front of Snape's dress robes.

Hadrian's consciousness narrowed to the heaving of his stomach and a single, overwhelming conviction: Snape was going to _kill_ him.


	12. 11: Sickness

A/N: Thank you for waiting so patiently for this chapter. I hope you find it worth the wait. As always, reviews are very welcome… and happy holidays, whatever you celebrate.

Remember, Harry = Hadrian and Hermione = Helena. And as always, none of this is mine. I just play here.

* * *

Much to Hadrian's surprise, Snape did not scream at him. In fact, Snape did not say anything at all.

The force of Apparation had released the floodgates. Hadrian's stomach kept heaving, and he continued throwing up over and over again. Once the initial force was gone, he mostly spewed over himself. Or at least, he could feel warm and damp globs of vomit all down the front of his robes.

He closed his eyes, intent on pretending to himself that this wasn't happening, not in front of Snape of all people. Tears leaked down his cheeks, no more controllable than the contents of his stomach.

He swayed, and a pair of strong hands grasped his forearms, holding him steady. He leaned into them, eyes still closed, gasping as he continued helplessly to produce tears and vomit, both in seemingly limitless quantities.

After some moments, the boy's vomiting turned to dry heaves, then subsided. Hadrian opened his eyes and realized he was leaning against Snape's chest and had left a second stream of vomit down the man's front. Moaning, he closed his eyes again.

A cool, long-fingered hand rested briefly on his forehead.

" _Evanesco_!" Hadrian opened his eyes just enough to see that Snape had vanished the vomit covering both of them, though both sets of dress robes were clearly ruined. Merlin, he'd just ruined at least 20 galleons worth of robes, more if Snape's had been more expensive than his.

When Snape spoke, his voice was, if not gentle, at least lacking its characteristic harshness. "Come along. Let's get you upstairs and into bed."

Strong arms supported Hadrian up the stairs, then helped him out of his ruined dress robes and into his pajamas. The covers on his bed were peeled back, and he was gently lowered into the bed. In short order a glass of water appeared on the nightstand; a large, empty cauldron appeared on the floor next to the edge of the bed; and a hot water bottle was tucked against his aching, still roiling stomach. The covers were pulled over his shivering body, the lights went out, and he could have sworn a soft voice told him to rest before he drifted off into oblivion.

#

With the boy tucked into bed, Snape headed immediately for the shower. While he might have banished the boy's vomit, he still felt disgusting.

For the next fifteen minutes, Severus Snape focused single-mindedly on getting _clean_.

Slowly, his feelings of revulsion receded, and thoughts swirled in to take their place.

First, logistics. The girl would need to sleep downstairs tonight, to minimize her risk of exposure. He snorted to himself. Exposure was such a mild term for what he had endured upon their return home. But the last thing he needed was two sick children to look after, so the girl would sleep on the settee.

Second, everything about the situation felt, well, _wrong_ to him.

When the boy kept disappearing during dinner, it simply had not occurred to him that the boy might be ill. Such stoicism was so far outside the behavior he expected from the child that the possibility had not crossed his mind.

He would have expected the attention-seeking boy to whine and carry on at the smallest bellyache. Especially given the child's obvious objections to attending the dinner, he would have expected the boy to try to get out of it. And indeed, under the circumstances he would have been more than willing to allow the child to stay home in bed. Or so Severus assured himself.

Did the boy really think he was such a monster, that he would expect him to endure a dinner party while sick enough to vomit? There was little love lost between them, certainly, but he'd never before considered that the child could be afraid of him. But if the boy was not afraid, how to explain his behavior?

Severus found himself questioning everything he knew—or believed he knew—about the boy. It was deeply unsettling, to say the least.

He needed answers, and he needed them now. The boy was insensible, but the girl was not. He would start with her.

Clad in his pajamas, slippers, and dressing gown (all in a dignified black, of course), he slipped into the children's bedroom. He cast a monitoring charm on the boy, which would alert him if the child's fever spiked too high or the boy became too dehydrated. Silently he crossed to the girl's bed and gathered up her coverlet, pillow, pajamas, and robe. Folding them neatly into a pile, he clasped them with one arm, gathering her slippers with his other hand, and slipped back out of the room.

When he returned downstairs, he found the girl in the armchair with her knees pulled up in front of her face and her arms wrapped around her legs. She looked shaken. Well, he could hardly blame her for that.

"Hadrian is sleeping now," he reported, surprising himself by using the boy's name. "All things considered, it would be best for you to sleep down here tonight," he continued, placing the pile of bedding and nightwear on the settee.

The girl did not protest. If anything she looked relieved. Sensible of her.

"You might as well get changed," he added. "No reason to be careless with your robes just because your brother's are ruined." And mine, he thought, though he didn't say so.

The girl nodded and uncurled herself from the chair, making for the pile he had left on the settee.

"I require a cup of tea," he declared. "Would you like one?"

Surprise bordering on shock showed in the girl's face, and he realized it was the first time he had treated her with any sort of familiarity. Well, that would have to change if they were to create the right impression at Hogwarts. And besides, he wanted her insights into the boy.

#

Ten minutes later found Severus and Helena both returned to the sitting room, each wearing a robe and slippers over pajamas and sipping from a freshly made mug of tea. The girl eyed her adoptive father warily as she sat across from him, clearly unsure what to make of the situation.

"Did you realize that Hadrian was unwell?" he queried, careful to keep his tone conversational rather than demanding.

The girl frowned slightly. "Not immediately. At first I thought he was just brooding about the dinner and anxious about Malfoy—"

Severus scoffed slightly, finding this proposition even more ludicrous than the idea that the boy might fear him.

"No really," she insisted. "Malfoy's said some horrible things to him over the years, whatever you may have chosen to believe. He's always taunted Harry for not having parents, nobody wanting him, things like that."

Severus found himself inwardly wincing at this—mean-spirited, and not even clever—though still puzzled as to why such barbs had proved effective.

"I think he felt nervous, being told he had to spend time with Malfoy and wasn't allowed to retaliate, because in his experience Malfoy _always_ starts something," Helena continued firmly, refusing to back down. "Anyway, at first I thought he was just uncomfortable with the situation. But when he didn't eat dessert, that's when I realized something was really wrong."

Severus took a sip of his tea. "Explain."

"He always eats dessert. He'll pick at other food when he's particularly nervous or unhappy, but in five years of eating together I've never seen him skip dessert when it was offered."

"I see." Useful information for gauging the boy's state of mind in future, if not an answer to his immediate questions. "Are you surprised that he hid his illness?"

The girl grimaced, looking down into her cup. "Not really."

"Would you care to explain?" he asked.

She gave him a piercing look, obviously conscious that he had never shown any previous interest in her thoughts and wary of his newfound interest. "Why do you want to know?"

"Suffice to say that I wish to attain a better understanding of— Hadrian." He did not say that he had been surprised. The gleam of comprehension in her eyes informed him that she understood anyway. Damn. A vulnerability revealed. Oh well. He knew her vulnerabilities all too well. She could not resist the flattery of being asked for her insights, not from a teacher she had sought to impress for the past five years. He took another sip of tea.

"He—may I call him Harry, when talking about the past?"

He frowned slightly, surreptitiously checking the paperweight in his pocket. "In the context of this particular conversation," he allowed, "you may."

She took a deep breath. "He never said anything directly if he could help it, but Harry's relatives didn't treat him well."

Snape frowned. "I was under the impression that they did not get along," he offered judiciously. A hint of impatience crept into his voice.

Helena exhaled harshly, then took a slow sip of tea before responding. "Not getting on is the least of it, Sir. More than once he said his relatives would be thrilled if he managed to get himself killed. He said it often enough and casually enough, I don't think he was joking."

She took another sip of tea, tension evident in the planes of her face. Severus waited in silence for her to continue, scrutinizing her closely.

"I know they made him do a lot of chores around the house. Cooking and cleaning and laundry, I know for sure, but I think more. And I'm fairly certain they withheld food from him. He used to ask me to send him snacks during the summer holidays—not treats, mind you, ordinary food. And he was always noticeably thinner at the end of the summer than at the beginning."

She paused again, taking another sip of tea and then staring blindly into her mug. Snape sipped from his own beverage, watching the girl carefully. Until earlier tonight he would have scoffed at the story the girl was giving him. Potter was simply too confident, too arrogant, too much the center of attention to fit this exaggerated story of neglect.

Except for his behavior today, none of which fit his conception of Potter. Grudgingly, Severus acknowledged to himself that the boy's behavior this evening was conceivably entirely consistent with the … alternative picture the girl was providing. Conceivably. He waited for the girl to continue, withholding judgement.

"I—" she sounded less certain now, more nervous. "I can't say for certain, but I don't think Harry's relatives ever took care of him when he was ill. I know I've always had to badger him into going to Madame Pomfrey when he was sick, and I've never heard him whine or complain when he didn't feel well. Quite the opposite of Ron, really—honestly, you'd think the world was ending every time Ron gets the slightest cold. It's a bit difficult to be certain though, because I've never seen Harry anywhere near as sick as he was tonight, either.

"But no, I'm not entirely surprised that he didn't say anything." She took another slow slip of tea, clearly considering her next words.

"Harry, Hadrian… he's… really different from what you seem to think of him, Sir." Her voice was cautious, but her eyes were challenging. "He hates being the center of attention."

Severus gave her a look of patent disbelief.

"Really. He hates it. Ron's the one who loves attention, not Harry. Harry's always been horribly uncomfortable with his fame. The only place he doesn't mind the attention is on the Quidditch pitch. I think that's because he loves flying so much that he forgets about everything else, rather like me with classes." She flushed at this admission, clearly embarrassed. "He's rather shy, really, and he gets nervous about things more often than you'd think…" she trailed off, lost in contemplation of her friend.

Could she be right about the boy? She certainly seemed to believe what she said. But the paradigm shift she suggested was radical. He would have to consider, and observe the boy more closely himself, before he drew conclusions.

"Is he going to be all right?" she asked tentatively, naked anxiety visible in her face and her grip on her mug. "I… I don't think I've ever seen someone be so sick before."

Severus drained his mug before answering. "He's not well. The dinner and subsequent Apparation almost certainly exacerbated his illness, explaining why his earlier display was so… spectacular." He would have stopped there, but the girl still looked anxious and uncertain. "It's almost certainly some variety of stomach flu."

She continued to stare at him anxiously, no spark of comprehension visible in her face.

Surely the girl must be familiar with the stomach flu? It raged through the school nearly every year. The mundane strains of the virus were relatively easy to treat with potions, but the magical strains were just as common and far more difficult to treat. He was particularly susceptible—he had been even as a child—and he almost always seemed to catch it, so he was quite conscious of its prevalence in the school. Surely after five years at Hogwarts she must have experience with the ordeal? Merlin knew he had taught far too many lessons over the years while not-quite recovered from it, using charms to insulate himself from the potions fumes. But the girl's expression was still questioning, so he continued.

"I expect he will still be feeling poorly tomorrow. I greatly doubt that the illness is serious, but it's hard to predict precisely how long it will last. You must know how rare it is for these things to last more than a few days, but surely you also remember that it takes some days beyond that to make a complete recovery."

She finally nodded, though she did not look as if she remembered anything of the sort.

Severus decided that nothing further was to be gained from the conversation. He had finished his tea, and he had a feeling that it would be a long night. Standing, he bid the girl goodnight before sweeping out of the room.

# # #

It was indeed a long night. The boy's fever spiked shortly after 3 AM, and the monitoring charm woke Severus from a restless sleep.

Hadrian proved incapable of keeping down more than a sip or two of water, so Severus found himself casting hydration charms and wiping the boy's face and neck with a damp cloth.

It was obvious that the child was only vaguely aware of his surroundings, but even so he uttered no complaints. Rather, he mumbled apologies. Snape frowned at that. He doubted that the boy was coherent enough to remember the previous night, but perhaps he retained a vague sense of embarrassment? Curious.

The boy's fever receded to a less dangerous level shortly before dawn, and Severus stumbled back to his own bed after recasting the monitoring charm.

It was half past nine in the morning when he woke again. He made use of the facilities and shaved, but did not bother to wash properly or dress. After checking on the boy and finding him asleep, Severus padded downstairs.

Somewhat to his surprise, the girl was sleeping soundly on the settee. Remembering how anxious she had been the night before, he decided to let her sleep and proceeded into the kitchen to cook breakfast.

# # #

Not many minutes later, Helena awoke to the smell of eggs wafting from the kitchen. Waking in the unfamiliar place, it took her a moment to realize that it was considerably later than usual. Well, last night had been taxing for everyone.

Her conversation with Snape the previous evening had been… different. She'd never had an actual conversation with Snape before. Over the years he had lectured her, interrogated her, scolded her, and (most often) ignored her. But he'd never really spoken _with_ her before.

He'd actually asked for her opinion, and then listened to what she had to say! Helena didn't think he'd been convinced, but he hadn't dismissed her outright. That in itself felt like a victory.

Even more astoundingly, he hadn't treated her like an idiot except at the very end. She hadn't had the courage to tell him that she'd never actually _had_ the stomach flu herself. She knew Harry and Ron (and most of the other Gryiffindors in their year) had both gotten it the winter of second year when she was in the hospital wing with cat fur all over her body. Ron and Neville had had it again during third year, when Ron wasn't speaking to her because of Harry's Firebolt. Under the circumstances, she hadn't absorbed many of the details either time. Those were the only years she could remember when her Gyrffindor yearmates had gotten it.

After carefully folding her coverlet and stacking it with her pillow, she made her way into the kitchen, where she found Snape placing two servings of poached eggs and toast on the table. She fetched the marmalade while he made a large pot of tea, and the two of them sat down to breakfast.

They were not talkative, speaking only to ask each other for the salt or the milk, but the quality of the silence had changed considerably. The difference was not the absence of tension, but their relation to it. Before, tension had lain between them. Now it bound them together, if loosely.

Snape disappeared after breakfast, and again after lunch. Helena spent most of the day curled up on the settee, reading.

During the remainder of the morning and early in the afternoon she did some reading for her most recent assignment. Over lunch she tentatively asked a few questions relating to her potions reading, and was heartened when Professor Snape answered them without sneering or insulting her, though his replies were brief. It wasn't anything like the easy rapport she had shared with Madame O'Malley, but now he was treating her much as he would a Ravenclaw whom he liked, or a Slytherin who he did not particularly favor.

She spent the afternoon reading over the new defense textbook—the only one of the fourth-year books Helena hadn't used before. Encouraged by her success over lunch, she tried discussing it with Snape over supper. In many ways the result was the same: he answered her briefly but politely, though her queries did not give way into an actual conversation. However, Helena left the meal elated: when she had expressed an interest in studying the NEWT-level defense text, he had not dismissed her out of hand. Granted, he had not promised anything, either, but it was hard for her to imagine Professor Snape making any promise that wasn't also a threat. If she could keep up her studies in defense and also convince him to continue the tutorials in potions, the year wouldn't be a total loss academically.

She continued reading into the evening, and fell asleep for a second night on the settee still warmed by the prospect of educational opportunities during the coming year, even with the anxiety she felt about Hadrian.

# # #

Outside of meal times, Severus spent Saturday alternating between caring for Hadrian and working on the defense curriculum for the coming year.

After years of making only small adjustments to the potions curriculum, designing courses for all seven years was nearly overwhelming. Albus had not thought to give him the defense position until after he had injured his hand—which had dramatically changed the calculus of assigning him the position, since both men were certain that the position had been cursed by the Dark Lord. Seven weeks was simply not long enough to develop seven years worth of defense curricula, even if he hadn't had other demands on his time. Which he very emphatically did, especially this summer.

Given the poor quality of previous instruction, there was considerable overlap in the syllabi for different years, but not nearly enough to simplify his task. For instance, he would be starting both the first and second years from square one given the execrable quality of the previous year's instruction—if Umbridge's bumbling could even be dignified with that designation—but the classes would still diverge quickly because the second years would be far more competent at casting simple spells. It was the same with the NEWT students at the other end: the sixth and seventh years would start in the same place, but the sixth years would have go far more slowly because they would be learning nonverbal casting, with which the seventh years should be far more proficient. In the middle, the level of magical power which students could be expected to harness altered dramatically over the course of the third, fourth, and fifth years, requiring significantly different calibrations for each group.

Despite these pressing demands, he visited the boy's bedside every hour or two. Sometimes the boy was (mercifully) asleep, in which case Snape would vanish the contents of the cauldron by the child's bed and refill the boy's water as needed before slipping out of the room as quietly as he had come and returning to his other work.

Other times the boy was awake, if hardly more coherent than he had been in the middle of the night. These times Severus would stay a while at the boy's bedside, helping him to drink water, if largely because throwing it up again was less painful than dry heaves. It was quite clear that the boy was incapable of keeping it down. Once, after a particularly intense bout of vomiting (mercifully directed into the cauldron), he found himself rubbing slow circles on the boy's back.

Throughout the ordeal, Hadrian occasionally whimpered in pain, and a few times mumbled half-coherent apologies—though for what, specifically, it was hard to say. But Snape found himself most struck by what the boy didn't do: he never, ever complained.

# # #

Saturday night was a huge improvement over the previous night, at least for Severus: the monitoring charm did not wake him, and he was able to get a full night's rest.

The boy seemed slightly better in the morning, as well. Hadrian was still feverish, but his temperature was much closer to normal, and he was correspondingly more coherent. He was vomiting much less frequently, as well, Snape noted with approval, though still not able to keep down more than a few sips of water.

In light of this improvement, Severus felt comfortable leaving the boy alone for the morning, and spent the time productively working on the NEWT-level defense curriculum. The boy was asleep when Snape looked in just before midday, and Snape was nearly in a good humor as he prepared sandwiches and a salad for lunch.

However, his relatively sunny mood ended abruptly when he went to fetch the girl for lunch. Unlike every other time he had walked through the room or come to fetch her for a meal, she was not curled up in the armchair with her nose buried in a book. Instead, she sat on the settee, wrapped in her coverlet and staring blankly into space.

She looked up at him as he stood in the doorway. "I don't feel well," she declared in a quiet, dazed voice.


End file.
